All she hears is a whirr:
Flies hovering on a tectonic pile
Of plates, the mechanic purr
Of her daughter's doll.

And her sons drooling
Their dream of airplanes.
Her husband burps. On his broth
Is a strand of her hair.

Again she hears the sound
Of boiling. The garden wilts.
Waiting for the radio's forecast
Of one more storm. Mumbling,

She wished for it no sooner
Than the drama-serial
To end, to melt the cerumen
In her ears. The gutter

Gurgles. Slosh becomes her,
Her sweat streaming on
Her skin's keloids, untangling
The skein of varicose veins.

The floor wobbles her, and she
Seems to flow, flowing on
To where her breathlessness
Braces her to float. Like flotsam.

      - Philippines Free Press
        2/15/97
      - Home Life
        2/96