My country, you see, is surrounded with tropical spinning babes
of the equator, those temperamental hyacinths guarding
a ginosko of coastal charisma after which the beauty
of earth knows no history, future, or shall I say madness
soaked in between hangovers, flowing into greater darkness.
The rain outside gasps in my mind, and my mind
surprises each semen of pride my people share.
Weather reports would approve of the eye
as the typhoon’s most erotic part, the storm of a chance
I can barely withstand without an atom of your gaze.
You come just when the doors in village houses are shut,
classes in schools are suspended just when stars
take shelter in my shyness that at once
was heart and happenstance. It’s 9:45 PM
and I wake still to the monsoon wind offering
salt that fills into the space a dream that often
escapes me, learning how to sing again a song
for two people breaking a marriage of signs. You know
that I can hear you all the way out in the garage,
screaming your name all over town, a name the night
remembers in tide after tide across the Pacific.
*The international name of the super typhoon that devastated the Philippines in 2013.
Lawdenmarc Decamora holds an MFA in creative writing and is currently finishing his MA in literary and cultural studies. He is a literature professor in the oldest existing Catholic university in Asia, the University of Santo Tomas. His literary work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cordite Poetry Review, The Ilanot Review, Kartika Review, Spittoon Literary Magazine, Peacock Journal, TAYO Literary Magazine, We Are A Website, The Pangolin Review, LONTAR, Asian American Writers’ Workshop’s Transpacific Literary Project, Rambutan Literary, Shot Glass Journal, Ginosko Literary Journal, Mad Swirl, Chrome Baby, New Southerner, In Between Hangovers, Panoplyzine, The Cadaverine, and many others. He lives in the Philippines.