"Sakit ng kalingkingan, sakit ng buong katawan."
~ Filipino proverb
Pain flares in the smallest joint, outpost almost forgotten,
calling up a cartography that connects the folds of the little
finger to weather in the knee. The ankle smells smoke—
a fire burning in the hinterlands of the brain. Throw cold
water on it, but night after night, the burning starts again.
Press on the valley between thumb and index finger. A covey
of birds thrashes about in your lungs. A figure in a golden hat
leads a flock of tiny animals across the hinge of the collarbone.
It taps its staff in the air, embroidering a path to safety. Oh terrible
atlas, we have no idea what waves slosh up against countries of organs
bordered by currents of blood. Some are so close, we could open a window
and see what was served for dinner on the other side. But what armies
prepare to catapult onslaughts against each other? A spider
ladders down the spine, its ball of grief a pellet rolled up in silk.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
