Insomnia


blue music
sweeps

itself
below

the floor
lush velvet

of her
voice

erupting
from the

radio
the rumble

of thunder
breaking

Anita’s song—

so much
rapture

pouring
from her

throat
it’s been

so long
the night

is long
too        Anita

I see
the husks

of white
moths

who mistook
the lightbulb

for an
open flame



Tikbalang

He’s not all bad, Mama likes to say about father. Nor all that good.


stillness

It's the
only way I can make myself cry these days.