Were we ever like these wooden gods, scattered like rock-climbers along the atrium, unafraid of heights, unperturbed by stillness?
All the walls are matte, off-white in their perfect composure. Our steps echo on each staircase, fingers winding a blushing thread.
In the gallery of erotic sculptures, each form is simultaneously transparent and ambiguous. There are furred bouquets to fondle, benches on which a litany of captions could linger.
The wood on a birthing chair is polished: hue of dark silk. What is it that we commemorate, framed in paint and glossed leather?
Perhaps the rain has an answer. The ducks in the pond don’t know some hours are designated for pleasure, and the rest for a quiet like that of the tomb when all the candles have burned down.
Shadows darken in the reeds when everyone has gone away. Beribboned metal horses on the hoods of jeepneys seem to plunge ahead on the road back into town.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- [poem removed by author]
- In the hotel with thin walls and the name of a poet,
- Close Reading
- Soul Spa
- The difficulty
- When we speak through a medium
- Whatever it is
- Uncle Frank warned my father
- What can you hear in this downpour?
- Sketches for a Genealogy