• After No Longer Matters


    Tomorrow is a rusty piece
    of steel in the belly of a sword
    swallower. We are burying him
    swaddled in a circus tent. Flags drip
    rainwater on ragged edges.
    The small ones touch the drops

    pretending they are jewels.
    I am making this up as I go along,
    borrowing from memories
    decades gone. There was
    not a single traveling circus
    in my childhood. But an Indian

    magician at the Araneta Coliseum
    we did see. He cut his wife
    in two with a spinning saw
    and no box to hide where metal
    met flesh. He dared not pull her
    apart to swing her around.
    She just lay there
    for a minute, not moving.
    Then he whispered to her ear,
    perhaps words of magic. Some things
    we are never meant to hear
    or see. We leave imagination

    alone in a darkening room,
    time and a puncture
    in the wall. Light trickling in.


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