that you would let me be your harbor.

grass blades gnaw at my backside,
they don’t mean to bite, they’re just fervent in their suckling.

finger knotted
mirror palm

it always felt more complete when it was just the three of us.
you, me, and the vast, faceless

upon him, you and i finger painted all these parallels.
places we would never see,
rabbit warren cabins we’d never trouble ourselves to clean,

big, stupid piles,
bodies lie vine tangled,
but something halcyon, no more.

“look around the warren.
take what you can carry, because this is the last you’ll see of this room.”

over time, after the border closure,
after the parades of death squads,
faces of our brothers and lovers cloaked in ivory.,

we learned to condense three people into one.
we learned to say less, our words short and curt,
save for hours after, or in between,
when we could warm our skinny wrists over an open flame,
dreaming of the heavy, 72-hour lemongrass day
when it was all just painted doors and blue lights as far as we could touch,

“look around the warren.
take what you can carry,
this is the last you’ll see of this room.
we won’t be back”

my baby-my woman-my Chylde
my love is like a Cecile B. DeMille
u got me wrapped in ur Venus furs
Gone w/ the Wind; Forbidden Planet;
Wizard of Oz; Ten Commandments
all in one K-pop tears on my pillow
u want to hold me like an IMAX
Anaconda; u speak my language
not now my baby Supergirl; all the
marching heroes in their plumed
regalia marching to heaven (O when
the Saints go marching into battle)
that's what they meant & u walk into
my arms like Nefetiri; I'd prefer
Anne Baxter saucy petite ***** w/
bee-stung lips; I know ur pocketful
of cliches like wisdom; her little Jewish
state in the middle of the Arabs;
kissing in the shadows of the high stone
steps to the cloisters; marry her but
never fall in love w/ her; Dorothy
is not a ****** anymore; she met ******
& what happens happened; my love
is like a Cecile B. DeMille all Jewish
& blue like Bo Derek the Republican;
upon ur glistening green head sits
the shadow of ur corona O what a story!
my baby-my woman-my Chylde;
well fed slaves work well but not
better than our twelve women from hell

1 I am sorry for I have made Manila my backdrop again.

2. In pictures, I rarely show colors,

3. except when I am missing you. In the hues

4. of Baclaran, I got lost for a moment,

5. with its rush and reeks—

6. like a premonition of torment.

7. There is a woman in Harbor Square

8. almost entirely naked, with only her **** covered up.

9. She starts singing against the loud nightclub above Starbucks.

10. When asked for tips, my friend and I could only give a twenty.

11. Manila Bay reminds me of the pier near home—

12. both abandoned by the promises of high-rise hopes.

13. I tell Regina to look up in the night sky,

14. an airplane passes by, and we do not catch it on camera.

15. Instead, I shout at the top of my lungs, “HI MAMA!!!!!!!”

16. and tell her that I’ve been doing that since I was a child.

17. Calling my parents as if they could hear me

18. over the distant engine.

19. They’re in the clouds, I’m in our waters.

20. And in these very waters, my currents are unassuming.

21. All the people I have loved and have loved me

22. left me to chase airplanes, yet all my camera knows

23. is the bangka that sails me back home. Or the train

24. that takes me to stations of forgetting. Or the Carousel

25. that hops in corners of patience. In these very cities,

26. there is a certain uncertainty that only

27. my shutter speed can capture: hazy, ghostly, mapless.

28. Maybe love is faster than light and sound.

29. I was once told by my tarot reader Cecile

30. that my palm was a map to stardom. Apparently,

31. I was going to be known for my words. I do not

32. believe her. These maps in my hand seem all wrong

33. because they do not bring me to your knowing.

34. I write EXT. KATIPUNAN - NIGHT,

35. and wait for the words to come out.

36. Selfishly, there is no word I remember but your name.