By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

 

THE morning smells of newly-cut grass. Maybe it is the scent of rebellion, or the agony of being cut. Or maybe it is the scent of hope, the kind we cling to, when we are about to lose it. I breathe in the scent slowly, savoring its existence, the way I take in the smell of newly-burnt hay, on the road to Pagudpud, opening the windows as wide as possible, to coax the smells to enter the car, to blend with the sweet breath of jasmines from my garden. Or maybe the crisp scent of pine trees, at early morning, scaling the ridges of the mountain, on a horse suddenly stilling itself, even when I pulled the reign to speed off, smelling the danger of falling into a ravine, which, I failed to see hidden by the cluster of wild sunflowers, in my eagerness to catch the sunrise in the darkness of dawn.

Like music, smells bring on memories we have forgotten, bitter or sweet. They come alive. They come, stepping out of the subconscious, naked, raw, amoral. They are like breaths of babies, mists on our feet, a dance in the rain. Or the deafening sound of heartbeats. Or the opening of wounds.

 

Thorn

again, that haunting smell
from the salmon-pink bougainvilleas
a memory of thorns
on a dry, slightly cold, fresh April air
a mountain cabin
a slow blue and red flame
from pinewoods shooting embers
on grilled hotdogs and marshmallows
by the fireplace, beside soft pillows
I, barefoot, one with the wooden floor
and you, standing there, a thorn
threatening to inflict pain
sharper than the puncture from the thorns
of pink and white roses in your hands
eager to draw blood
not with a stab
but with the intense gaze of your eyes
slicing through thick layers
of woolen shawl
and silk undergarments

 

Black magic

stop teasing me, sorcerer
I lose control in your rhythm
you make me, you make me
a soft jelly, in your hands
don’t make me, lose me
slither, twist, oscillate
in the deep of the humid darkness
in the wild joy of the oblivious
and unforgiving

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