Tuesday, January 6, 2009


by Jun de la Rosa

A ball floats on the sea. Water

is not a place of falling. Nothing

is too heavy there
, an older boy tells

his brother who is afraid to step in.

A glass finds its way to the bottom

without breaking. Not even a crack.

To die in the sea is painful

but less tragic.

Across the waters, the weather bureau

spots a new storm, names it Pepeng.

The storm pounds hard on doors,

demanding an answer. How can you tell

a different storm? How dare you

give me a new name.

A waiter opens the tap. The pressure

is too strong, he senses. It seems like

water wants to break free from the sea.

Or the sea is blowing itself out

through the pipes.

A glass is filled. In a clear container,

water is tamed sea. Not blue with anger.

Across another sea, a woman looks up—

hands outstretched to feel the drops of rain.

This is a new one. Gentler. This is how

tears fall from where she came from.

A drop on the woman’s forehead

is an apology she accepts.

Everyone is cheering and the bride

holds up her glass to a toast.

It breaks against the groom’s glass.

An impact so intense like this

is called passion
, he says. She laughs.

Wine drips from the cracks,

staining her powder blue gown,

turning purple. The guests’ mouths

are still gaping in surprise.

A woman seated alone at the back

asked for a glass of water that never came.

Her eye, the surface of the sea.

1 comment:

Michael said...

It levitates me. Beautiful.