Root, Yearn

Nothing remarkable: a wrinkly wrapper, 
its heft just a little lighter than stone.

The shade of darkened newsprint, creased
by soil and ash. In the mountains,

they fill carrying baskets and jounce
like marbles as jeepneys rumble up

and down the road. There are days
that taste like blank paper, like saw-

dust, like everything we've borne
for years souring in the dark for want

of air, for want of warmth. How can I
mark the mouths of those I love

with something other than fog and
the endlessness of rain? O to split

the root and find its boiled gold
nugget. To eat its sugar while warm.

 

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