We never really talk about our bodies
Without eyes, all that’s left are the little of your cheeks
fitting the curve of my hands; my arms,
a hanging pretense of wings; the sole of your foot,
a slope. The heel is a hill turned downward.
The nape of my hips, a waterslide.

Your hands on my pelvis, a firm request to waltz.
There are many ways to encircle me–a hug
or the resolute limbs you rest on the cushion of my thighs;
the first one is Thessaly. The second, Macedonia.
Our fingers clenched together, a valley in our grasp.

the absurdity of an inverted triangle
fleshed out to a question mark.
Every contact is twofold:
the closer you breath on my skin,
the more words become inconsequential.

About the author

Floraime O. Pantaleta

Nagsusulat siya sa Chavacano at Ingles at minsan, sa Filipino at Sebuano. Nag-aral ng Literature at Linguistics sa Mindanao State University-Iligan Institute of Technology. Kasalukuyan siyang nagpapakadalubhasa sa Ateneo de Zamboanga.

By Floraime O. Pantaleta