G Spot
The silence of flowers
By Virginia J. Pasalo
IT is getting to be a habit, this three-hour sleep. I woke up at 2:45 a.m., listening at first to the sound of parrots imitating the sound of humans and the Gregorian chant imitating the voice of angels. Then, I turned off the music and listened to the streets that never sleep.
The streets have many stories to tell, but never spoke. Others spoke for them, the blood of suspected addicts for example, still cries for justice, long after it was baked by the heat underneath and the sun above it. The dirt too, and the dog shit, cursed as people stepped on them, and they fumed even after being carted away, or conveniently covered with sand. There’s blood and stink in the streets of Marawi, and they too are shouting stories, muted by the silence of the authorities. There is a deafening quiet in the news, in the mimes, and the memes.
No one seems to listen, and people pass by, hurrying to go to places, in quick steps, and when interrupted in any way, utter monosyllabic curses repeated many times over, that it becomes a sentence with no specific subject and no defined predicate. Winds, stronger than their voices, blew the stories away, and brought them to the sea, where the mermaids kept them as songs, composed by others, from a distance, where the grass was green, once.
And then i listen to the silence. I listen to the silence of the flowers.
Silence of the dead
the stump pulsates unable to deliver life
to its fallen crown
it waits, standing on its pain
stuck to the ground
a body struggling to find its head
The birds have flown
The trees have fallen
The flowers danced
to their grave, below
the road is quiet now
and you,
you are quiet, too.
Smiling
a newborn is smiling
with eyes still closed
and i smiled back
even if she did not see
i closed my eyes, smiling
i smelled a flower, opening
the scent of innocence
drawing nostrils, lustful eyes
silver scissors shining
and the bud is growing,
thorns.
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