By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

 

HE was, the son of a king, who was made by her mother, who made kings. They were immortals, biding time in the long sleep of a wink, and smelling blood, they resurrected. But he, coming out of his father’s bile, was not even half of him, imperfect and broken, in spirit and in speech: he stutters his unity with him. His sister, who was created from the rib of some other king, was much more eloquent, but cruel. She was a perfect copy of her own father, and her jaws, tucked perfectly, also tucked away his legacy of good taste and sagacity. She did not take after the beauty of her mother, or her unique ability to make kings immortal, or her panache and other flairs. But she can, with some intelligence, become the Rasputin. Unless, the queen, an immortal by affinity, sticks out her tongue, to lock out a royal Whisperer.

 

Curtain call

He came with the cold wind

at night, when the sun hid all

paths to freedom

a refugee of the curtains

the doors, the windows

are open now, he stays there

a lone fighter, nursing

wounds piercing his heart

he murmurs his pain

to the fibers of the curtain

his epitaph

 

The golden leaf

In the unity

we dumb down the stories

bury the mangled bodies

in the unspoken tales of the soil

where a hungry forest feeds on flesh

and grows new leaves

from golden, hidden spoils

 

Sunset storm

a burst of hues

beyond the colors

of storms and sunsets

in the grand unity

inherent quality

of the infinite unknown

and we, smaller than dust

swirling in the eddy

of a coffee cup

wallowing in the immensity

of a particle of existence

as if, we are most significant

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