A nuptial ode from "Poisonostalgia"

As you may already know, my fourth book of poetry, Poisonostalgia, published by the University of the Philippines Press, was launched last April 4th at the UP Vargas Museum.

[To see a few photos from the book launching, go to the Inkcanto column here: http://www.interaksyon.com/lifestyle/inkcanto-poetry-healing-and-the-hell-that-is-our-mass-transport-system]

I'll be posting three poems from the book on this blog. So if they intrigue and interest you, you may feel an impulse to buy a book for yourself and a loved one. Don't fight that urge. Trust your instinct and your soul. (Hey, it works for me, so why not for you, too?)

The book is available at the UP Press Bookstore in UP Diliman. Since the book isn't in other bookstores yet, you can send me PM on Facebook for orders. The book is priced at P250 per copy.

Below is the poem, Epithalamium. The term, by the way, refers to a poem or song written to celebrate a marriage. It's a nuptial ode... although this poem is rather different from the usual ode. Will post the other two poems later tonight or tomorrow morning.

EPITHALAMIUM

The lives of saints, if she were like before, you know, Catholic—

Oh, let’s unpack this, sort it out. The lives of saints, why,

They could begin, or end, right here, in a cheap hotel

(“A walk-up, as opposed to a drive-in”, her former best

Boy college friend, ever with a touch of sleaze, told her.)

Just like this one. Their anniversary tonight, with her

Husband and the whole rigmarole of marital joys and slights.

Sleights of hand and hand jobs, she’d pun in her head. 

The wonderment

Over it all is particularly sharp, suddenly. He’s late.  And she’s

Here, waiting and asking the air why this poor room God

Knows they could afford a sex romp at a shiny boutique

Type place with more stars to its name and wait, she

Chuckles and surprises herself. “Sex romp” oh dear Lord,

Please, King David and his biblical balls what’s wrong

With her now?  The stitch of words has gone off to a scraggly

Ruinous run.  She’s more poet tonight, it seems, than Christian.

Then the knock on the door, as though the Savior or Bridegroom

Raps His knuckles on her heart.  Through the peephole, no, it’s

Not him, it’s the waiter.  The food he’s brought will grow cold,

She feels it.  Just leave it here, thank you, thank you. And every

Thing’s silent and unbroken again. No text messages, no phone call.

And she reasons there’s no need to be sore on suspicion. She’s

Too old for jealousy.  She’ll believe him, any day. Take it on faith.

The Lord is just. The Lord is love. The mind trots away, or bleats from

A ravine for the Shepherd: he’s with someone. Something in her bones

Knows. No. She knows nothing. He’s at his meeting like he said.

He’s with someone. Younger.  Fuller, more taut yet yielding flesh, skin

Scented with youth.  Black hair. Fair or brown skin?  Pink or brown

Nipples? “Get behind me,” she said. Spirit of despair, mean shade of

Fear:  in Jesus’ name Go. Go to hell. This, is hell. The torment of saints

Yet on earth. The glad reward still far off but seen, just at the horizon’s

Edge. She sits on the bed. Her hand slides along, rubs over the sheets.

Their son with his grandmamma. Probably asleep now. Probably going

To wake later from the recurrent bad dream. “Scary thoughts, Mama,”

He’d be saying. She has to go home. She’ll just up and leave. Damn

Him. Damn him for leaving her waiting. Unbalanced. Having to stay here

On faith alone.  “But that’s just it”, the small clear voice says, lonely it

Seems, in her ear. “Everything is faith. Everything.”  She feels her eyes

Close; the tears squeeze out.  Hurt wriggles in the sand of her heart:

That old desert serpent.  She hears the rain faintly. Oh these humble

Walls couldn’t even keep that sound out. He’ll be on the elevator

By God, by faith, he’ll be going up. He’s stepping out at this floor.

He’s walking with that tired gimp. Too much stress at the meeting.

The traffic. She sees his face. There’s too much love in that sight. Too

Much. She’ll open the door. She’ll smell his stiff, damp hair. It’s the

Rain. She’ll have to towel it off.  She’ll have to rest in the Lord, to

Love him with the love of the Lord. The smile is beginning to break

Out of her face. The wings of a holy dove are beating inside this

Cheap room with its old carpet caked with God knows what. The

Long years cry out like stones. Beating wings as sacred as her

Heart, this instant.  She startles.  The doorbell rings. 

(Photo re-posted from http://www.today.com/slideshow/today/bold-bridal-unique-wedding-gown-trends-4947956)