All I Want Is You
–a golden shovel
after U2
Junior year, I fell into you,
roped in by this song. We say
how we feel with others’ voices. You
knew this, but lied about your want
of me, led me to a highway of diamonds
that vanished in the night on
the tailwind of a trailer, a
Mac truck in the desert. My body ring-
ing at your touch, a brush of
fingertips on lips. I was drawn to the gold
in your eyes, the glitter of your
laugh, seduced by a spun story,
a gleaming set-up for you to
push my head between your legs, remain
there in darkness, your intent untold,
tucked into the folds of your
boxers. You tried to sell this as love:
your dick in my mouth, not
the scrawled poems I wanted to
cup in my hands, with which to grow
a glow between us despite a cold
tempest of gravel. A desk lamp was all
the light we had. I thought it enough for the
sparks I started: glimmered promises
of devotion, sweet kisses. But we
were not we. The lamp’s bulb break-
ing into daylight, stale beer from
red cups on your shelf cleared the
fog within me. The cradle
of your hands on my head changed to
a vice from which I broke free. The
song now ruined, buried in the grave-
yard of my heart, when
I only sought shine to cast out all
shadow from my dark corners. I
stood up, walked out, shook off my want
of you. But the damage was done. This is
the song’s serrated edge, sharpened by you.
Dear Home,
Capiz shell windows. Jeepneys. The sea.
White house, red shutters. Sunburst Lane bursting with sun. Dirt bikes and skinned knees,
the white boy who held my hand, loved me at nine.
Pancit and lumpia. Lechon and kare-kare. Baptisms, communions, first place math team.
Basketball in driveways and A Tribe Called Quest. Line dancing and cotillions. Tinikling and
karaoke.
Have you been swept out to sea by Typhoon Haiyan, brushed away with Samar, Lolo’s
hometown, like crumbs off a table, the rugged sound of Visaya buried in water?
Or dissolved into the memories of elders who have forgotten how to speak?
Have you run away from this girl bursting with sun? Does the touch of my hand singe?
Perhaps you are my children’s laughter sprinkled over tea parties. A full spread of plastic
cakes and My Little Ponies. Tiny cups of hot chocolate. The snow outside whipping against
the window.
Maybe you are the sound of a church choir singing “Be Not Afraid”, voices echoing in the
rafters. The Body of Christ melting on my tongue.
Perhaps you are the taste of Om in my mouth.
Though Sherlin is not a lane of sunburst, the shine still slides along driveways staccatoed by
basketballs and rim shots. The smell of damp leaves and charred husks of grilled corn.
Adobo slowly cooking on the stove.
But maybe not.
Perhaps you have been right here all along, deep in my belly: a fire.
Image Credits: chispita_666
