you took your eyes off the figurine on the doctor’s table &
watched a ball of water dribble down the hill of your mother’s face.
she nodded as the doctor read the report in strange tongues.
after the news, you saw your body for what it really was:
a monster in autothysis,
a hollow house where sadness hangs on cobwebs—
or what do you call the emptiness left by a betraying body part?
what is the word for a liver drowning in its own river?
back home, you took a walk to the sea—
you’ve missed her smell,
the blush on her face painted by the scarlet rays of the evening sun,
the green leaves at her side clinging to the helm of your skirt like the child beggars at ipaja.
today, the sea is calling you,
each flap of her waves an invitation to baptism.
you heeded, walked into her open arms &
joined your body to the rhythm of her waves.
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