I Hear My Heart

    I hear my heart howl,
    a wounded wolf fighting for shelter
    along burning columns of mire
    in the cold whiteness of a winter’s chest;
    I hear my heart weep,
    and his voice is muted by a hurricane
    of ebony wings that soar like spears
    onto a bleeding, barb-wired sky;
    but I do not grieve long, not for long—
    for, as I hear my heart whisper
    the agony of volcanic ash
    it also promises the ecstasy of waterfalls
    that subside into a symphony
    of rustling rain and playful wind
    that plays on and on and on
    through moments of a single midnight
    onto the eternity of a new dawn
    that starts with my trembling hands
    finding calm and warmth
    upon your breasts.

    * * *

    A Vampire’s Song to His Beloved

    I would like you to whisper me a poem
    a poem that hisses like copperhead wind
    a quiet, intrusive, searching poem
    that snaps like sweet poison kiss
    that brings me to quick sleep—
    as the rain wafts softly
    among the trees’ shoulder blades
    finding refuge in the cold
    damp night, darkness collecting
    a weary head.

    I am so tired, so please say the words
    like the lost language of crows
    that find shelter in the wounded intimacy
    of an aftermidnight dreary.
    Touch me, oh touch me
    like pangs that fuses death
    and make me rest in the abyss
    then wake me up with the song
    of healing like sunlight that sneaks
    through the flesh of dusk and mends
    the cracks of broken blinds…
    my love, my beloved
    your love is my peace
    and my home
    amidst the light of night
    and the dark of days.

    * * *


    Like a quiet seashore that offers refuge
    to the ocean’s turbulence and calms down
    the waves’ frolic and adventure;
    like a riverbank that pacifies rapids
    and neutralizes overflow—
    my rampage and my meekness find
    solace and frenzy, sleepy surrender
    and sweet unease around your hips.

    * * *

    The Taming of the Wild Woman

    I want to negotiate the depths
    that reveal ladders into your dark
    into your steep cave of treasures
    into your sleeping volcano—
    and then, I will thrust my head
    upon those black clouds, swallow your fire
    and clear the smoke as I unravel
    and claim my home in your heart.

    * * *


    When our universe is reduced
    to a solitary driftwood upon
    a famished riverbed
    at the end of days and nights,
    I shall lift us from the abyss
    and hold you tight, so tight
    as we ride through the rapids
    onto an angry waterfall—
    but I will stay with you
    with all my might and madness
    until we merge with the sea.
    About the poet: Pasckie Pascua currently lives in Candler, in North Carolina. He is a journalist and poet. After his arrival in the United States in the late 1990s, Pascua edited the Manhattan-based Headline Philippines from 1998 to 2001. In North Carolina, he is the founding executive director of the ‘Traveling Bonfires,’ a non-profit “people’s culture” organization and editor and publisher of ‘The Indie,’ a community newspaper.


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