Postcard
The stamps adhered
by the lick of the thumb,
fingerprints hasty rivulets
on their gummed backs
26 pesos worth--
an amount torn from jeepney fare,
whispered exchanges
melting in streetlights,
the sari-sari store Stork.
The postcard, free of charge
its stoic black lines, damming
the shiny, empty white,
waiting for words
to stretch out their moist palms,
ink blurring into the creases.
I write I’m sorry.
With an ebony fountain pen--
just-filled.
Its river writhes under my tongue,
the roof of my mouth
trembles to its temper
but my lips are heavy
and brick-red.
I hold the postcard up
to the sunlight staining my desk,
my middle finger accidentally
smudging the y on sorry.
Sorrw.
I blow on the words,
think of my warm breath
brimming the surface
of letters,
making them all the wetter.
No matter.
I shove it into a ripped-seam pocket,
containing remnants of soil
from the coins and stamps,
promise myself I will drop it in the mailbox later.
The stamps adhered
by the lick of the thumb,
fingerprints hasty rivulets
on their gummed backs
26 pesos worth--
an amount torn from jeepney fare,
whispered exchanges
melting in streetlights,
the sari-sari store Stork.
The postcard, free of charge
its stoic black lines, damming
the shiny, empty white,
waiting for words
to stretch out their moist palms,
ink blurring into the creases.
I write I’m sorry.
With an ebony fountain pen--
just-filled.
Its river writhes under my tongue,
the roof of my mouth
trembles to its temper
but my lips are heavy
and brick-red.
I hold the postcard up
to the sunlight staining my desk,
my middle finger accidentally
smudging the y on sorry.
Sorrw.
I blow on the words,
think of my warm breath
brimming the surface
of letters,
making them all the wetter.
No matter.
I shove it into a ripped-seam pocket,
containing remnants of soil
from the coins and stamps,
promise myself I will drop it in the mailbox later.
