“WINTER POEM” and “Swelter”
WINTER POEM1
all these year’s waiting—
the old country’s valuing is dead.
& the love itself isn’t love
but a metaphor
forgive yourself. moon river
made of synth. still night made
of oaks wrapped with bands
of light—
isn’t grief a form of love
pretend i am a parcel
pretend i am a splint undone—
a border underexposed with people,
drug lords, outsourced women,
& typhoons of child soldiers
as weapons.
isn’t grief a form of debt // metaphor
pretend i am the casualty, an ordinary man—
this is middle east, & not America,
& i am not important.
isn’t this poem a revolution,
a street sign, a thousand wake.
pretend i am the fire & the unsolved crime
i camouflage power, independence—
a failed trinity,
a sinking cruise ship
a stomach fractal full of salad cream,
old teddy bear, boxes of old papers
& polaroid. unearth—
1This poem contains adaptation & dissolution of phrases borrowed from Janice Labo Sapigao
Swelter
for Donald & after Emily Cinquemani
it's march & the clouds in the shape of hands pass silvery shadows over us. i sit in my porch with the world heavy in my mouth. the trees lean closer today. & a bird i follow with my eyes, glides in the air & descend. to tell you something you already know: the morning news were bloated with thoughts & prayers for those affected by the pandemic— a drought sprawling with the breath of death. too many worries & i can't stop mourning everything again & again. what if my brother does not die but instead is impaired? what if he must rely on the aid of oxygen? what if i have to kill him with my paws? what if he doesn't find solace in civil rights? what if he goes blue, & all we need to learn is hope & hope, whether or not, he looks good enough to bury. there is a bird-wing in my heart— terrifying & silent like a drain with shallow water. for days, i dream & summon a flood—it gilds my hands with the whole rot of human disaster— i'll never lift him up like when he was five & the earth loosens. the melody of city lights has gone dumb.
