By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo 

 

A tribute to the sand, who came, and stayed inside of me, theoretically, erratically.

Happening

I am not, tonight, going to talk
not because I have nothing to say,
(because there’s much I’m going to say)
but because I can’t speak
about pain, the kind that is silent
muted over time, sleeping,
like nothing happened
like nothing is happening
like nothing will ever happen
but you are here
like you exist
in real time, at a time when
time is ending

Ending

what is ending, when there was nothing
to end, so hazy, fleeting
from the very beginning

Beginning

I saw your feet running, in the pages
of my notebook, on napkins where
your face is drawn from the memory
of looking, locking gazes
melting defenses
like a meringue losing stiffness
as it touches the softness of your lips
and suddenly, I’m on air,
with me, delicate petals swirled
in abandon, defying gravity
floating

Floating

I thought I died
I felt I died
I imagined myself, at a gate without gates
an ethereal entry point
facing a saint, looking at the registry
contemplating the gravity of my sins
whether to punish me for the wantonness
of my happiness
and decide for me to suffer, once again
in your hands
in another life

Life

my so-called life is happening
with or without me knowing
you are happening
a ripple, a speck of sand getting in
the open face of an oyster
gazing at the crescent moon
surprised and aghast and closing
opening with the soothing touch
of a moonbeam

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