By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

 

SEPTEMBER is associated with the number seven. I remember September with the blooming of three shades of blue purple flowers: aster, forget-me-not and morning glory. I remember an IVLP General Assembly where Prof. Jose David Lapuz stood up to chastise the credibility of a report, “I remember deep in September…”. I remember Josei Toda making a key declaration condemning nuclear weapons as a threat to humanity’s right to live, and calling for their absolute ban. I remember pain. I remember love. I remember writing poems.

 

Him

the shirt hung loose

draped over his shoulders

thin as a hanger

the denims were drawn up

an inch above the waist

he looked like fragile glass

threatening to break

given the slightest push

and he spoke, as he always did

without mincing words

unmindful how the words

cut into layers of interpretation

 

and yet, he meant no harm

in his words were his fears

unspoken, but speaking

louder than his words

there was an urgency

a desperation clinging

to a fiber of hope

clutching at every breath

raging, against the dying

of the light

 

Mist

you came, with the clouds

and gently mingled with the leaves

into my nostrils, my skin pores

wetting the green grass

on whose tips, I licked

a dew

 

Half a soul

if I kept
a part of your soul
to hold it, to smell it
to caress, to know
to form part of me
would I become you
or you, me
would it be
a sin
to birth a seed
from a seedless flower
with less than half
a soul?

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