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.
