The Birth Of Tala
The moon, the wind & sea tides each other
as we sweep colors across the room.
We pull another roll of pickled film
out from our mouths & retrace
our memories in negatives,
a motion of dead
rising from its prey.
Then it coils around our ears whispering,
a force that makes sky starts gathering
heavy as if grapes to a basket,
to a winery,
pours to our glasses,
then back to our mouths again.
Some shadow play of Petrushka
but not with puppet string but
noose; a funeral rehearsal.
We witnessed this event bloom to a swirl.
Sirang plaka, paulit-ulit.
My doctor’s theory is that we are sick
& inside our heads we are dreaming;
outside are the events caused
by delirium within the dream.
The tests says we fell into slumber—
sleep is how
we slowly enter the black hole
shredding us apart
like hanged dead fingers.
This space where fever rises
& outside we quiver, we scream.
A synchronized loop of two
breaking through for
a bigger event, to its opposite—
of sleep: exit.
Of blackhole’s vomit to the rupture
of new form against its shell.
The dream, the head
cracking open with liquid silvers
and clouds of dusts. There,
from the void a new soul
will emerge skin like
the first light of morning—
the waking of us, birth of tala.
By Kari Astillero
I am Kari Astillero, a Filipina residing in a city of busy people somewhere in Philippines and a Journalism major. Mesmerized with the universe and a star-stuff who is in love with poetry & nature, I wish to have my own published book of poetry someday. A non-conformist and mostly alone drinking coffee while reading, writing or thinking (sometimes daydreaming).