Tag Archives: english

Exercise: An Attempt at Haiku

The night smells of rain
but nothing smells sweeter than
the scent of my pain.

07 June 2010

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Wife (2009)

Your hand on my breast
wakes me to the sound of
your sleep. I take delight in
this familiarity: your
warm skin blanketing me
from the coldness of this
space we call ours. I squeeze your
hand against my breast,
waking you to the sound of my

fever. Time quickens with
every bead of sweat and
sigh of breath. You whisper

a lie: “You are
a goddess,” with each thrust that cuts
deeper with every stroke of lust. I fall
into your arms, weak yet

unfulfilled. Time is shortened
by the clock’s jealous whining.
You get off the bed, scrambling
to get dressed.

I try to loosen the knot of your tie,
coaxing you back under the sheets
with me. But you are done
composing yourself: cleverly

clad in a perfectly-tailored suit (I gave you as
a gift): you make decency look so easy
to reclaim.

You slip a silver band
around your finger. A faint light
from the window touches it: the brilliance
blinds me for a moment. You

crouch down to give me
a kiss. You whisper
a confession: “I cannot stay
for dinner.” I light a cigarette
as you walk out the door

in silence. The clock’s jealous whining breaks

my stupor. Acquiescent, I lay
in bed. I try to fake
a smile and whisper
a truth: “I am your goddess;

she is your wife.”

– 09 February 2009
– 3rd installment of my “Wife” series

“She is solid.

As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.”
— from Anne Sexton’s For My Lover Returning to His Wife

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the ideas cavorting inside
the mind; even more deficient
are the echoes of waves surging
against the chest (struggling to break free
from being tightly bound)
to relieve

stomach cramps

do not always induce excretion
or indicate that there’s something to release
other than a gust of gas that’s


is the anticipation – poised on the seat
of emptiness: a cigarette dying out
in the interim of musings;
a tabloid severely crumpled – writhing
in constipated anguish to force-unload
secrets that have been rotting

inside the belly

an uproar has been started by all
the swallowed profundities, the souring
is ominous of the looming
defecation that’s worse than birthing in


will draw barren tears
from a stagnant well deepened by faith in


my pen’s ink may finally

30 January 2009
– final draft of Pagpaparaos’ translation in English
– thinking about submitting it to the Cayman Arts Festival this year, but will have to wait until after the 10th of March before I do so — the competition is only open to entrants who have been living in the Island for a year.
– recently published in UP Quill’s 17th folio, Sitting Amok: Ganito Kami Umibig (This is How We Love)

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Wife (2006)

At least you came home.
On your way in, you asked for dinner and
a kiss. I hesitated,
but lightly brushed my lips
against your cheek, and whispered,
“It’s on the table.”

I won’t be able to re-heat it for you
this time. The microwave is broken.
You’re never around to fix it, and I’ve
never been good at fixing things.

You can throw the dishes in the trash or
just leave
them on the sink.
There’s no water to wash your mess
tonight. The tank has dried up.

I’m off to bed. By the way,
you should take something home for dinner
tomorrow. I’ll be out shopping.

you can find this in UP Quill’s literary folio, “Sitting Amok” — 15th volume.

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Wife (2004)

Once again the rooster’s crows beat you
to the gate. I watch you from a corner as you wobble
towards this house
I maintain to be home for your
returns: three-course meals; hot baths; a
warm bed you’ve avoided since you’ve
discovered the convenience of the sofa.

You reek of alcohol and cheap perfume
from another visit to the red light district.
I stand patiently at my corner,
               waiting. My shadow dances
under the flickering
light in your presence. (Do you even notice?)
You concentrate on your stagger and
as you near my corner, you stop

to lean soft and warm against my
stiff cold body. And
                            I feel,
again, how it is to glow
like the vibrant strobes in your red city of lights.
Your breath reminds me of ripe chicos, of
an appealing bitter sweetness.
I move closer to your face.
               But before I could taste the liquor from your
lips, you open your mouth, let me taste
the leftovers of what you had for
dinner, instead.

this is included in UP Quill’s literary folio, “Sitting Amok” — 13th volume — under the pseudonym, “Eva de Matta”.

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because i cannot have
You any other way
i will give You back
the keys to Your place
and s    t     r      e      t     c     h
the                 space
between You  and   myself.

it is not that i desire
to see less of You
but fear i would get too familiar with
Your face and forget
even the personnosrep i often talk to
in the mirrorrorrim. to see You
frequently is too much too much too much too much too much too much
of a habit, urges me
to lock You up with
Your own keys. i
must give them back

because i cannot have You.

recently published in Lunduyan ng Sining’s (Sanctuary of Art) lesbian literary and art folio, “What These Hands Can Do” and first came out in UP Quill’s literary folio, “Sitting Amok” — 12th volume — under the pseudonym, “Eva de Matta”.

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Vanilla Fantasy

Vanilla ice cream dreaming
slick in my mouth,
stirs up memories of
a child and a mother’s caress
and I cannot dream
without a blanket.

Lately, dreamless slumbers
even under sheets
like the past,
vanilla lingers
inadequate, an unknown mother,
constantly waking me up
to cover myself
nights, more chilly
without any
vanilla swirls
to dream about leaving
me orphan, longing
for a familiar lullaby
to blanket fears,
searching for a mother’s
hand in an empty room,

published in UP Quill’s literary folio, “Sitting Amok” — 10th volume.

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