I find your shadow in the shop rooftop
again, our silhouettes snow-angeled on ash.
In this city, God’s heatwave shrouds windows
and exiles in all directions. The sky is the only still
frame, holding your colors: a pink cheek, tangerine.
A flock of mayas shoot through power lines, and then
none more. I look at you, arms spread too, jacket flapping
in the wind like a raven. But that ledge defines the limit—
a holy firmament that delivers us. So, barefoot, we talk of flight
or the lack thereof. We share blankets, molted feathers, beeswax.
I wear the desperation of Icarus while you wear his cascade, our
sunburns sinking into saltwater—no one ever reaches the mainland
in our dreams. Our bodies sweat rust as we wake up, the moon hanging
herself like a heavy church gong. Nightly, we trace each other’s scapulas
before the prayer finishes; I hope we see how the light strikes every muscle,
like it’s supposed to be there, even if folded or bruised—like a body still breathing.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 28, Issue 3.
L.N. Valenzuela (he/him) is a queer Filipino poet pursuing his bachelor’s degree at the University of the Philippines Diliman, and he is an active member of the UP Writers Club. He received the first runner-up award for spoken poetry as the Luzon Representative during the PACSA National Midyear Convention 2024.
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