Wong Kar-Wai and This World Before the Morning Remembers Its Name

There is always water in my dreams.
In the horizon where everything began,
is where I could touch your name. Engraved
in its boundaries, a tapestry of longing.
Distance is an interlude numbered
by the supplications of leaves
before the mapmaker’s tears changed
the contour of our geographies.
You said Wong Kar-wai likes to use the same actors
because hope is a motif in his films.
Familiar actors  mean continuity
(Love never ends, really). They live on
in different names, different lives.
Or other endings—where our shoulders inched together,
fragile in their tenuous desires, lost
in an island of emotions, disoriented
fragments of images filtered in time,
becoming memory is a broken sigh
that lingered in the mist and
your face was all that I could see.
What do you want? you asked.
I said: scrape the silence off my soles,
tell me again how swans fell to the earth,
or how giants forgot the sound of their footsteps.
Remove the lacerations on my back,
carve out your eyes, fill them with rubies,
restore the nightingale’s sight
and let it sing zai zhe ge shi jie
before the morning wakes and remembers its name.

Arnel San Pedro is a part-time freelance technical writer from the Philippines.

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