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| Poem for Orly turning twenty-five |
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Tell me, what a poem does you? Perhaps, in lieu of dozens of white blooms wrapped in leaves to hold in the hammock of your arm, or colored stones for luck, to tame the demons, you say. Maybe, a jarful of the Virgin's tears believed to have welled in a subterranean womb of Mactan, sap extracted from wizened wood to lave the thirsts of skin. But, would any of them heal the wounds that bound us like memory to a dulled mind: your mother's body found lifeless afloat as kelp on a beach's shoal; your older brother, Butch, he with a body of bloodstreams flooded with sugar, racked his brain, and one Christmas eve, turned loose and turbid? And, how would they temper rage, guilt, anguish, or mend a fractured human craving, like an unfinished poem?
The answers you well know.
But, what have I
Let me be the lonely prayer |