I receive your stories, day after
day. Coil after coil, I carefully
pull them from you. In my hands,
they seem rough, but sturdy.
They will do.

You see, there is a storm out. Winds blow
hither and thither. Waves crash
angrily. Keeping the boat afloat
is using up all my strength.

I am using your stories
to tether my boat to the shore.
Word after word, they serve as
my lifeline to the shore---
and you.

Matagal na kitang niloloko.

Magkaulayaw kami
ng mga bituin,
ng hangin,
ng gabi,
ng kamatayan.

Inaangkin ng mga bituin
ang diwa kong kaputol ni
Bernardo Carpio.
Hinahaplos ako ng
malamig na simoy ng
hangin.
Napapawi lamang ang aking
kalungkutan tuwing
nagtatagpo kami ng gabi.
Nagbubulungan kami ng
kamatayan ng matatamis
na mga salita.

Nagbunga ang aming
pagtatalik, aaminin ko:

mga supling ng
titik at tayutay,
mga anak na inuluwal
sa ating panahon.

Your familiar smell occupies
the well-lit staircase. I
pause on the landing, key in hand,
heavy bag on my shoulder.
I hear you shuffling as I open
the lock. You sit there, a large shadow,
patiently facing me, tail wagging.
I look beyond you and see
your masterpiece: chewed-up
paper, ****, ***.
I set my bag down,
scratch your ears, and
start cleaning.

I have only started cleaning your
mess, when you are already
helping clean up mine: all
anxious thoughts and
sad memories, waiting to
be flushed down the toilet.

There is a certain apprehension
upon learning
that one must sink before
being able to float. And swim.
It calls to mind previous drownings,
in and out of the water.
Of being pulled under
of thrashings
of water coming in and threatening
to overpower one's self.

But one plunges in
and acclimates
to the cold water,
remembering that even the
greatest among us must face
the unknown.

Thoughts run from the gate toward
each ride, excitedly shouting. Like
children, they chase each other before
choosing a ride. They choose a carousel,
but one with the intensity and speed
of a rollercoaster. They continue
to shout, to call my attention, as they
whirl past.

This amusement park for thoughts is
open daily, twenty-four hours a day. It is
open to all, though
none can get out.

For the past nine or so years,
he weaves a blanket. Night after night,
he incorporates thread after thread
of caresses and warm words. For the
blanket's purpose is to dispel all
forms of darkness, real and imagined,
to combat the mosters under the bed
and inside one's head, to imitate
a canopy of stars.

Night after night, he hands me the
unfinished blanket. It is soft and
warm. And though I still sleep with
the light on, the blanket is enough
to remind me that the ticking of the
clock is sometimes similar to the
beating of two hearts.