— 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.

Cottage unhinged
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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