Poetry / March 2017 (Issue 35)


before me

by Aimee Cando

a window blue-tinged misting
at the edges and beyond a city
on its routine to empty itself
steady into the night then her
pressing imprints on the pavement
still grey where it had rained

we part like this always
with me only eyeing the pleats
of her skirt where her hands rest
folded like dove wings statuary
my fist curls around nothing still
as if fearing: snap of a bone
the passing of a barren breath

tonight at the street corner
where she and i had stood for long
kicking dried up siniguelas into the road
the city has made room for all this
waiting a light flickers with an electric

hum and every so often a buzz
as if to inhale then hum again
an ambulance howls across the avenue
leaving only the distant echoes
of its tires to dissolve into wisps
in the wind

 
 Aimee Cando, 21, was born and raised in Quezon City, Philippines, but grew up on the Internet. She communicates primarily through dank memes and maintains a fondness for dogs and hip hop music. She is a student of the University of the Philippines Diliman where she is working on her Masters degree in Creative Writing and a member of its Writers Club. She currently lives in Cubao.
 
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All poems, stories and other contributions copyright to their respective authors unless otherwise noted.