Falling
falling
from a
height
is a kind of
f
light
where
your
desti
nation
is
your
self.
In The Spaces
(Why)
You can only speak your words (to me)
only in the spaces between
your utterances,
and (Why)
I can only write my words (to you)
only in the spaces between
my texts:
Do you know that I measure time
not by minutes, not by hours,
not by days or nights, but by the
duration of your glance?
And yet here we are, feeling intimacy
only in the way our backs touch,
our faces turning strange
not knowing whether to age or to
remain the same,
for our faces have not faced
since (when?).
If I dared to call out your name,
will you turn to me? Will you let me
be again? Or will you not hear me
because you perceive speech
not by words, not by phrases
not by sound, but by the
movement of my lips?
And you cannot see them,
because we love the way our backs touch.
It ends for us
not knowing whether to turn or
to remain this way,
for our faces have not faced
since (too long ago).
The Youth
And it bothers us how
those heroes, whose names
we couldn’t care less about
died for their mother
land
as if she ever did them any good.
Yes, we are children
with no navels, no mothers
who graced us with her milk
because she was too dry;
too incapable of nurturing.
In ancient Sparta, they
used to send weak offspring
to meet the elements.
These days we do that to our mother.
Gentle Things
I used to keep roses in my garden.
They were most wonderful:
luscious red petals
silky smooth against my fingers…
I also used to keep rabbits.
They were most gentle:
immaculate white creatures,
hopping about the yard;
free to taste the grass,
to smell the leaves…
but they only had eyes
for roses.
Surprisingly, they didn’t mind the thorns,
the risk of getting pierced was worth taking
for a taste of the nectar dripping
from red veins.
Obviously, I tried to stop them:
I carried the rabbits by their
hungry bellies,
and lifted them
to someplace else,
but they always returned
to where they’ve been,
gnawing and eating,
until what remained were
scraps of what was once
the crowning glory
of my garden.
My roses, killed by mere
gentle things…
Bonsai
Sturdy branches, destined
to grow tall, to bear fruit, to live life.
But the hand that feeds it takes from it
its destiny.
Oh, impaired child, what will she say
When your mother finds you,
Tiny and battered?
Oh, impaired child, what will you tell her
When she weeps for the death that you live?
Will you smile? Will you say you’re fine?
It’s a shame, but I think you will,
After all, you take pride in your
Bro
ken
limbs,
the ones disciplined
yet broken.
Rina Caparras writes fiction, nonfiction and poetry. She is a senior student at the Ateneo de Manila University taking up Creative Writing. She also writes reviews for a local magazine.
