Slowly he fluctuates inside her belly;
his dreams oceanically decoding
the math of alphabet on his fingers
that long to touch her crest,
the closet of Eve tracing an ancient lineage:
the germ-plasm forking the idiom of the night serpent,
the shadow of the eternal swing of fluids belly—
flopping, swamping the canyons of Fallopio;
of spark-making glands; of menstrual
traffic throttling the temperate climate of the grotto;
of latterly leafiness, of flowers
the immortal cut
the oneiric songs of Valery.
To see her up under a thick shade that is what
a child yearns. He yearns to fluctuate as the fluent
beats of the savannah gently ruffle the amniotic,
crinkle the bed sheets that bear the weight of lingering
sands furrowed by unimpeachable orgasms
where once the gods had dwelt:
the summer night sky looked awry at first,
the cushions were terrible, the duvet
unshorn of the last scent of detergent,
and yet the moon never failed to demand attention
to the eager wings of zebras
fledgling behind the silver drapes.
At times a child would sense
the full moon choking his dreams.
The lowest point of the swell makes him long for the land
only he had seen: the ancient land of memories,
of smart seraphs, of the winged features of his playmates,
of see-through flies flitting on the prairie grass.
Far beyond the moon
the waters would take him to a journey,
farther from memory,
into the ether,
lost and free.
But it will be soon his mother will taste her menstrual joy,
and much in between before the moon ovulates.
My only child drifts in the shadow of her face.
November 15, 2009. 1:39 am. Quezon City