Eileen Tabios

TWICE, I FORGOT (1)

I forgot once longing for an intermission. But love is also a source of difficulty.
I forgot the pillow still shielding a stray tooth because someone believed in a fairy tale.



TWICE, I FORGOT (2)

I forgot the brother who gave me a rainbow trapped within enamel.
I forgot, for him, she released milk to orphaned baby birds.



TWICE, I FORGOT (3)

I forgot it was not a blood teardrop—simply, the last red pepper hanging from a 
string in front of a white wall.
I forgot soldiers whispering by a paltry stream, their eyes locked on the slimness 
of my ankles revealed through ripped cotton.



THRICE, I FORGOT (1)

I forgot moths as the sun disappeared—“the flutter of wings as they teased a dim 
porch light.”
I forgot entrancement with the layered auras of decay.
I forgot a water lily forms instantaneously.



THRICE, I FORGOT (2)

I forgot releasing breath solely to describe milk transformed by your scent.
I forgot Tequila Corazon de Agave alchemized from the heart of blue agave bred 
in the rich, red soil of the “Highlands” in Arandas, Jalisco, Mexico.
I forgot “Mutual Funds” is an oxymoron.



THRICE, I FORGOT (3)

I forgot the seduction of wet cobblestones.
I forgot the blinding whiteness of a thick porcelain mug sunning itself on your 
windowsill.
I forgot those dolls—for a moment, their eyes had relaxed.


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