May heaven bless
Auntie Mimi
for in the years
after Uncle Buboy
left her
for celestial embraces
that are warmer than hers,
she has faithfully prayed the rosary;
but most of the time,
when I see her
through the eternal crack
of the ancient door
to her room,
she would roll a single bead
between her fingers,
while her eyes roll
towards heaven
and warm,
viscid
tears
trickle
down
her thighs.
It's as if the dark, which had before just been context, gave to vulnerability a permission, almost: fleshy saucers of spilled cream, so many parchment fists, unfisting; and now, in pieces, the delicate mask of an indifference offered radically up against what, each time, seems as unthinkable, as unexpected, as when, in the long dream of retraction, that sea that is finally not a sea, but what else to call it, begins again its shifting, and though to every push of the will forward there's something noble—which is to say, something lonely, also—it's too late. Carl Phillips Speak Low Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Hmmmm, ok to ah, hehe, you got any more by the same author? or if you don't would you tell me where you got this piece? salamat po
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