I was taught to name the bodies
of water. As if the water was not name
enough. As if the boy I was then didn't pack
crates of cards to set sail, in those months
with their irreversible hum, the curious cat
he'd sit next to on bamboo floors, gathering sunlight
for butterflies. As if butterflies weren't sunlight itself,
or the flowers they kindled in the small garden,
demolished by dust. This morning I made
an inventory: fur, claws, bones. Stitched
the moments of hunger & hanged them on the yawning window.
Where was the sky's burning whole note that would repair
our names? Something sedentary sank somewhere.
It hoped for my return; meanwhile, outside,
the clipped kundiman I'd pursued was heard
writhing inside the mirror.