A Chorus of Three

Morning sizzles. The windows
look like spring, we remember spring.
Curtains flap with the aroma
of jasmine left to calm the night.
In this layer a woman makes bread,
cracks egg after egg on the pan
to feed people- or herself.
For her, for her and her
whose name and face I wear—

and we sing…

Unearthed hymns,
sprouts of dirtied light;
at age six her bones tremble in fear.
The center is a room like
hospital hallways, walls like
broken plates swimming in colors,
a mosaicked face
of Mother rusted in blood & blue.
She remembers and forgets;
tucked in her bed & pillows
letting her dream & melt the clock,
wake up when the rain stops, we say.

and we sing…

On the surface is history
with skin like crumpled paper.
All night & day on the front porch
rocking her chair; waiting,
humming mossed rocks & tender,
some ancestral tune filmed in her eyes.
Lungs breathe dry coughs soon,
her flesh & bones will
turn into a desert but the soul,
the soul will live—

and we sing…
Amen.
So be it.

By Kari Astillero

Biography:

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).