Mark Anthony Cayanan
Ode to Stasis
I finger paper until it flakes.
The desk further mired by it.
The cover of the seat: restless
flowers, the fan agitating.
The whirr, the tricycles outside.
The windows curtain.
I slap my cheek, a mosquito
blooms on my hand.
The room seethes around
the negligible casualty.
The fan presents itself
as metaphor. The air sullied
by epiphany: not the love
of the world; if only the lack of it.
PHOTO: Latticewok by JJ Sta. Ana
That Story
Every two hours or so
the child in its crib
cries: it expects.
Other times it stares: irises
crowding out whites.
Its gelatin mouth a mistold
confession? present,
your version being fiction?
Listen—
Something has crept past
your door like an odor.
You have not listened—
You are on the floor and life
oozes out; the baby stares
at the vicinity of heaven.
—Listen. You only can
beyond this poem. Has it not
compelled you at all?
Every two hours or so
the child in its crib
cries: it expects.
Other times it stares: irises
crowding out whites.
Its gelatin mouth a mistold
confession? present,
your version being fiction?
Listen—
Something has crept past
your door like an odor.
You have not listened—
You are on the floor and life
oozes out; the baby stares
at the vicinity of heaven.
—Listen. You only can
beyond this poem. Has it not
compelled you at all?
