Sunday blessed peace from nothing—
and nothing was a woman reduced
to a child’s love running after drunken anger
letting go of nothing,
again nothing—
nothing was napping in the rainy afternoon,
a hand held by nothing—
like a bladder scar that said no puedo,
estoy bien cos esto, esta bien para mi
o lo muero, nothing was the heart
feeling a husk, nothing was laughter
while grieving a lost son, nothing was speaking
the mother’s tongue to a widow, nothing was the call
of Kidapawan, nothing was vibrant and light
from a blown electric tower— it is then a very quiet Monday
as if someone died, spoke too soon, something died:
crippled, longing, whimpering nothing
from the other end of a slow hello
that serenades it—
Nothing lives.
