Fiesta Alone

Bougainvillea branches carpet Molo’s streets 
in petals, thrilled by people’s absence.
Today is Flores de Mayo and the air is sweet
while I walk below the fiesta decorations,
alone— alarms from ambulance sirens cut
the silence, snapping at
my gaze in a second,
until I reenter this city:
 
Bodies cover Molo’s streets and my people
are absent. It is Flores de Mayo and ambulance sirens
sing in the great cries of Reyna Elena.
Walking below the fiesta banners, bearing sighs
in smothered faces, stored inside starless skies, left
to fall from my city like petals;
an aftermath to coughed up confetti.
 
Today is Flores de Mayo, and I enjoyed
fiesta decorations, while ambulances ferry our absence.
The scent of air in Molo is sweet, like medicine,
while bodies cover Iloilo, my city, like petals.

#DalgonaCoffee

I do not [might not] shatter
the glass when I whisk
the coffee into a galaxy
of balloons rising into anthills
of clouds,
then [likely] to deflate as a star does
before explosion.
 
Instead pin pricks clink; it’s the whisk.
Or is this [the glass] already broken?
 
Instead I move on to milk,
the minced stars ready
to be too hot for its [their] own good.
 
Instead I pour it [the foam]
as one would hold a bomb,
one wire partially cut.
 
Instead I post the picture, caught too many times,
to receive an answer to
is this okay?
to which the answer then
waits instead