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Poetry || SubmissionsRaymond CalbayHeliophilia"And in the movement of the sun, I felt something II. After tucking in our shadows Whole under our skin, we collect whatever Darkness remains in us-- Between fingers, under the eyelids, inside The mouth, beneath the body's unnamed creases-- And fold it up until it fits On the spread of our palms. Roll it until it balls out crisp And hard, Like our hearts. Leave it with the right amount of sunshine, It might grow up to become a tree Or a yellow flower. II. Everything is assumed clear In light such as this. The emptiness we recognize as soul space Finally becomes legible, redeems: It keeps the sorrow of skin, holds pain We are accused of shaping and willing. When the sun clears it, we burn. III. Do not ask for reprieve, we are all forgiven: Our footsteps leave no trace, our breath Fragments, and soon we return Back to light. Shall we then surrender Hand in hand, Exhaling: Ra Meeting HoleAs agreed, I take this streetside seat In this coffee shop cavity of our default city, The cappuccino cup my only source Of warmth. My wristwatch's second hand ticks With the gravity of proverbial longing As the soutane sky claims Straying shadows. I light a cigarette, drawing in Your memories In the silhouette of smoke: Peaks and pits of secreted limb, Bubblegum tongue, Arabesque of hair And hips. I have no choice but stay. Beneath the pavement's cracks, The undercurrent Of your stilettoed steps Travels, shudders my spine. Behind me, the chimes sing good luck, Or good riddance, With the shop door's every Swing. So my ceremony with silence continues. The cappuccino grows cold, and in my fingers The cigarette burns, ashes away. I endure the waiting because When your presence assembles Next to my skin, Maybe your lips will move first, Lick off the rain dew collecting In the laugh lines of my face. Guitar lessonRelease the pressure: Slide the right thumb From the first string down And what comes out, always, Is distinctly sad. Arranging the acoustic interlude, I lie back against the couch, Legs stretched and ankles crossed, Relaxed from the weight of Outside worries. In my arms the guitar, A classic varnished mahogany, Cradled as if the two of us pose For an opening samba. Played by this instrument For the second week now, Keeping your instructions in mind, I order my fingers in their proper G Major places, straining My middle one to pin The correct chords. My first strum jangles but without you To tell me to stop, I strum And strum anyway forgetting The string patterns, fret tuning, And chord series that composes Music into your decided tenor. I rather release the pressure, the strain In the strings. Fingers untangled To feel with the bleeding melody As it plucks the heart to beat With what you call discordant, Broken. Raymond Calbay is a business reporter for The Manila Times. His poetry has been published in local publications and has won an Honorable Mention in the Los Angeles-based Third Meritage Press Holiday Contest. Today's Situation
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