Water
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.
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1 comment:
It levitates me. Beautiful.
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