I wake up to caterwauls, purrs and meows, on the roof,
on the ceiling, and behind the walls. Pachet and Mios’
lovemaking fills the house with noise. I get up to look
for them but they already left. Nothing stirs when

I'm awake. Perhaps, they were not there at all.
Perhaps, I am going mad for wanting to be intimate
with soft furs and gentle tails that leave in silent footsteps
like a lover leaving in the morning while the other is still asleep.

They are stray thoughts I leave to their own musings.
To chase their nimble bodies is as futile as knowing
why they have nine lives, or why of all the places
they make a raucous feline motel out of mine.

I’ve come back from Davao, a city that never rests,
to this town in the shade of Mt. Matutum—Polomolok
is conducive to dreaming in the balcony, enjoying two cups
of coffee to remake the present and unmake the past.

A great poet once said, "Blood on the moon is blood
on the mind." Fucking cats fucking cats are cats
on the mind. May it be Freyja's mounts, Bastet,
or any otherworldly guardian, I am no longer concerned.

For there is only one thing I know to be true. My solitude

the roof, the cocklofts, the walls, to look for myself, my "ineffable
effable, effanineffable, deep and inscrutable singular" self.