By Saquina Karla C. Guiam
The following poems are part of the author’s micro-chapbook Skysea, published by Ghost City Press in 2017.
A long time ago, Bakunawa took our moon.
Pity us! Return our moon–the crown of our king.
The moon rises seven times on the seventh month.
Mirrored in the water–a flicker of a tailfin gleams,
outshining the daughters of the night sky.
Somewhere, horns bellow songs; the music smudging
the edges of silence, and then the dance of pots and pans
join the strange aria.
Teeth bared against moonlight–pull away, hissing;
body flows from heaven to sea
rippling the surface.
Tailfin is the last to disappear.
The impromptu orchestra soon dissipates.
Rinse, repeat, for the nights to come.
If God wills it,
a wide, slow river
will rise–just shy
the muted day.
You will see gold,
Perhaps, in your reflection
in the water:
I forgot how it felt like to defy gravity:
if anything, it’s become this flimsy film
of memory, falling apart second after second
at every running jump I take.
But I don’t mind the weight
of a solid grounding;
the view is better down here
with every light bulb in the city
a reminder of who I used to be.