to Bea Yap Martinez


Banished from a house

in havoc, a broken vase,

a curtain on fire,


I tiptoe here to hide,

a child enisled

in a labyrinth of green,


crouching behind

stem and leaf,

branch and blossom.


Heft of footsteps enter,

a stick testing the air,

seeking the source of sin.


Under the cover I keep,

a tremor in the throat:

a movement brushes


the nearby branches.

Merely a swirl of breeze,

spills pollen into air,


into eyes. The one who

seeks, is teary-eyed,

retreats. In the clasp


of grass, I settle into

underbrush. This is how

I shall be found


in the dark: haloed

in his flashlight,

a cherubim asleep.



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