— Krysta Lee Frost
Fruit bats circling the palm trees.
Kaleidoscope of black against the bruise
-blue of the sky. Father stretched
on the hammock, sweating San Miguel
in hand. When it was easy to believe
in god, blood-red hibiscus lacing
the cinder blocks that separate
one lot from another.
Discarded guavas in the grass,
pink-hearted globes waiting for rot.
Third iteration of a sea wall, wet cement.
Another felled tree.
by typhoon. Tito found
dead in the hut. Shower water
salty. Window grates eaten
by rust. Mother’s necklace lost
to the ocean. M almost drowns.
Lolo sees ghosts, people who don’t exist
crowding the dinner table.
“Feed them,” he pleads.
Scrape of spoon and fork on plate.
Ants drowned in a bowl.
The pan de sal gone cold.
I love people I no longer love.
Sando from the clothesline lost
to the wind. I’m skin
and bones. Mother spoonfeeds
me vitamin syrup. I barely know
I have a body.
From the terrace, the sea
wavering as if in a trance.
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