Monday, October 5, 2009

In Dependence

Seven days
after the flood,
the mud-laden
garbage pile
squats
on the mud itself.

Marked
by all sorts
of dragged object,
the half-dry mud
records still
directionless
routes
of all things
gathered,
dragged,
piled with a thud.

The thud
does not discourage
a mosquito from
humming around
a laborer child's
twice-bitten ear,
nor the poor flies
from a tetra-pak straw.

The child hears
the mosquito's violin
and is bit again,
but sleepy again
after a whole afternoon
of watching jeepneys
laboriously
go by,
gape,
shake heads.

She waits now only
for the next
supper
ration
sure to arrive.

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