Fistfulls of dark hair in darker water
the expression is not beautiful
or ugly
just pure survival.
When hands do what they're meant to do
and you wanna tell him
"I just want to drown"
and you wanna tell him
"I just want to burn out" but
he manages to throw your cigarettes away
hide every sharp insrument in a drawer
flush the xanax down the toilet
he says blue is such a lonely color,
so he repaints your walls and you scream at him to stop
as the sun shines through mirrored curtains.
When you are broken you expect everything around you to  be broken.
White sheets replace black ones and he traces your footsteps back to the bathroom tiles,
smiles says;
"let the light in babe"
mistakes the fear in your eyes for sadness
you have no more room left for sadness
and he has no room left for empathy
running on caffeine and sympathy.
youll take what you can get so the nighttime doesnt have to be darker without him
hope he finds your notebook you place strategically ontop of a kitchen counter
because surely if he could read that he could understand
there are days darker than the ones when you chose to let the light in
it will shine on all your rotting parts
on your cracked canvases and too-full-dams
it will bring sight to the stink that is inside you
he will see
and if he cannot understand the terrror of that then he is not human

Awaiting a friend...
Wishing,
Praying,
He,
His
Poems
Soon
Reappear.

(Where art thou, Soul? Hope all is well...)

Sally

Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

I want no one there who knew me  
find a young crew of miscreants
to do the deed: they can drink their suds,
play soccer with an empty can  
carry out my plebeian plan,
as long as they dump me
in a shallow hole--I don’t want
the buzzards to tire of the dig

I want no one there to say my name  
or utter some sap like,  
’tis a shame, the old guy’s gone  
just have them ram that shovel
hard into the devil’s dirt
wipe off the well earned sweat  
with a glove covered hand  
I don’t want bubbles  
on sissies' palms, to be my
blistered legacy

though they are whispering,
and my hearing muted by the years
and the cluttered clang of today,
their voices sift softly through the trees,
a ghost chorus, chanting
late songs from the killing grounds,
wafting warily around the trunks
on the backs of bent breezes
their names come like seeds
in the hopeful spring rains
as if they yearn to be born again
but the earth does not bring forth
their lost and longing faces
new names take their places
not in the choking jungle canopies
among the rubber trees, the bamboo,
the Mekong’s murky, mournful flow
where I last heard their plaintive pleas
drowned by the roar of chopper blades,
and my own metal screaming
but now in the desert, under
the Tigris’ and Euphrates’
unforgiving suns
still, I hear them, a labored litany
through the trees
yet asking to return
to sit with me, as the sun sets
white, on my gray eyes
and new voices silence
their wraithlike song