The Poetry of Dance and Hair and Hands

Of course, for Izanor Lyn Marzo Javier

There is dance in the darkness and lightness of these waving, floating strands.
As if hands, the dance flicks the light reflecting the Ilocos afternoon in the gloss of your hair
blown by this December wind. My hand turns into a mere spectator wanting to join
this movement of strands and eyes and hands----touch the dancer, join this dance----
but all this Poetry and Dance continue, not minding the stares of my hands
as we pass by the open fields of Nadsaag. Flowers bow and grasses sway
by the side of the road as the music of the tricycle continues to rock us and hum
carrying us back to your home. The sky is as red as curtains
falling to close the day in a while, and I remain as a mere hand,
wanting to join your hair in its poetry and dance.

Morning

I'm back! After several months, I was able to write again. Hope this continues. :-)

There is something metallic in the sound of the tiny rings scraping the rod
as you draw open the curtains letting light pass in from our window.
Outside, some passing breeze blows lightly on the chime above our door,
and the tinkling plays on and on in the memory of my ears.
I grope for the blanket to my chest with my right hand;
With my left I feel and fix the pillow under my head.
As I open my eyes, I see you standing there before the window,
the light casting your shadow on me.
This morning’s radiance gives me the illusion of your translucence,
blurring the edges of your white chemise and your skin.
For some moment I keep still and watch you move
so very lightly and with grace: picking some clothes here,
Some fallen notes there, standing still again and looking outside the window.
There must be something in this morning, in this space enclosing us:
all the stillness and movement and sounds and silence I seem to sense:
Your feet on the floor, your bosom heaving as you breathe,
some leafless branch tapping on the window.
Things are so calm, so silent.
They seem to come from outside.
Sitting on the bed now, I wonder at the precision of your movements
As if they were something done forever, well-rehearsed, and now at play.
And I wonder I’m still here on the bed watching, feeling everything in wonder.
The chimes outside continue, and the sounds of our breaths continue.
And each of us is waiting who will be the first to speak.