Nagtapos si Paul Jerome Flor sa Ateneo de Manila University, at isa siyang kasapi ng LIRA (Linangan sa Imahen, Retorika, at Anyo). Kasalukuyan siyang freelance writer at researcher, at nakatira siya ngayon (hindi lumalabas) sa kanilang bahay sa Cainta, Rizal. Hinihiling niya ang kaligtasan ng kanyang kapwa, at ang kalayaan ng kanyang Bayan.
Deep in the Capital of the Dead there are only flowers. I am sixteen forever. Mama makes me her world-famous-to-me sweet spaghetti for my birthday. No processed cheese clinging to the blade’s so-called miracle edge for today. In low-heat heaven, Mama smells of minced garlic. Brown as antiquated vaudevillian reels. Can-can of tomatoes conga lining to the saucepan. Mama doesn’t dance, but she sings Twist and Shout, and Amazing Grace. I jump to the music, and land on the wings of a yellow onion-skin moth. On her lap, I land on a field of cancer flowers. Sampaguitas and floral slippage blooming in her brain. She fears tears streaming down her already sweaty duster as she chops the noble onion bulbs, but I have pleaded with them not to make her cry this time. My only birthday wish.