I think I love you
You’re sipping coffee
and leafing through your dad’s woodworking guide.
I’ll be jamming with my bass player in the afternoon
and another local musician this evening, you reply.
I was asking about your plans for the day.
You could have been reciting the Bible
or reading a grocery list,
I’d still hang on to every word.
Have to go get cat food and beer at some point too, you add.
I smile.
You scratch your head and stare in the distance.
There’s something about the way you speak
that mingles with the memories I hold dearly,
knows how to touch the tender places of my body,
and makes a home of the hard places between my ribcage.
I’m still smiling,
but this time, my cheeks redden a little.
You look at me, puzzled,
and tuck a stray hair behind my ear
before gently cupping my face.
Maybe I’ll slip into something more proper
and get to work on that darn dresser I keep putting off.
You laugh quietly,
toying with a toothpick in your mouth.
I liked that you worked with your hands.
I can’t help but stare at your lips,
and wonder what it’s like
to be the tiny creatures that live in your house.
The black ants that cross your coffee table daily.
The little gray mouse you refuse to get rid of and even gave a name.
Or even the damselflies that live near the lake out in front.
How close in proximity
they are to you.
*
Things I say to myself
I play this game
where I stand naked in front of the mirror
and ask the body before me, who do you belong to?
Some days, I say I am my mother’s daughter
or the apple of my father’s eye.
Other days, it’s the name of my new lover.
One day, the name I say will be mine.
*
What colors do cracked glass windows show?
My father used to tell me he could taste colors.
I remember laughing at that as a little girl.
I hoped that one day I would too.
He opened and closed his bedroom door three times;
I never asked him why.
He always wore this sage green sweatshirt
and said God didn’t care about what he did,
much less what he wore.
One day, I entered his room and found him sound asleep at noon.
Bottles crowded his dresser.
He looked happy, young even,
but mostly peaceful.
I stood by his bed and watched him sleep for half an hour.
I later woke up in the middle of the night
and found him kneeling on the grass in the middle of the yard.
He was uprooting the flowers.
The burgundy roses, mulberry asters,
golden buttercups, and tangerine tulips – all of them.
It was a warm evening,
but he was shivering when I touched his shoulder.
Underneath the moonlight,
I could see his face was wet.
I couldn’t tell if it was sweat, tears, or the morning dew on his cheeks.
He howled,
and I swallowed the terror
that had begun to live in my throat.
The next day, uniformed men came to dress him in white.
He had somehow broken a vase;
crimson ran down his arm.
I removed my jacket and wrapped it around his hand.
My father looked at me, tears in his midnight eyes,
only broken things can taste colors.
I try my best to keep my voice from shaking,
then you and I are in the same boat.
*
Andrea Maxine Recto is a Spanish-Filipino poet living in Manila. Her poetry explores the themes of womanhood, grief, love, darkness, and introspection. Her work has appeared in ONE ART and the Santa Clara Review, with more forthcoming in the Long River Review, Spry Literary Journal, and elsewhere.