Thursday, February 2, 2012

Eileen Tabios



from Reproductions of the reproductions of the empty

XVII.                  (THE CHASE

You feel
your brow
compress
to sutures

as you
consider
the limpid
light.  The

edges of
your vision
are rimmed
in gold.

Once, you
inhaled dust
from a forgot
-ten town.

When he
smiled, he
blinded you
with teeth—
you blinked.

As lashes
fluttered open
you gleaned
a trail
of smoke

evaporating
from a
cup of tea
suddenly
in your hand.

“Mother, how
did you come
to speak
like this?”

Chiffon dresses
once swayed
with the breeze.
She paused

turned to
offer you
an orange.
You will
always remember

the experience
of peeling
away thick
hide—jagged

remnants cling-
ing to nails
and skin.

“Discuss how
the tilt of
a clock’s
minute hand
is both fraught
with meaning
and inconsequential.”

These memories
form a single
weight—you
are the one

offering an
extended palm
open and
trusting the
fall of light

against flesh
surrounding
your life lines.

Air spills.
Your gaze
follows, sees
footsteps

conscientiously
straddling
the thinned
excuse for
a rope.

***
***

No comments:

Post a Comment