In Antipolo, we sleep next to each other
BY ABNER DORMIENDO, TRANS. BY ETHAN CHUA
1.
I wanted to wake up to you looking at me. Instead we missed each other, both asleep. Now, between us, who loved more? The aircon sings a wedding song. The ants along the wall whisper rosaries. Clothes offered at the altar, change for last night’s rent you won’t get back, tithe to the union that we, lonesome, smothered. I still keep these in the poor box of my memory. Beginning from when we first met, each thing. Like your voice on the telephone. Clinking, bright coins.
2.
We’re lying down but the whole room’s awake with the unmentionable name. Not knowing what to do with your arms, you lay them on my shoulders. I tell you: This is my Calvary. You are my cross. I’ll climb Antipolo and nail myself to its highest tree. You know where, there’s nothing to explain. Crown me with your sharp gaze and leave me bleeding. I choose to choose you. Your will be done.
3.
Give me a few minutes and I’ll get out of the bathroom, right after I argue with the dripping sink, the borrowed soap. This isn’t what I wanted. But what is it you want? All I know’s that when this ends I don’t want to be alone. What awful thing could happen? Outside the bathroom, you’re lying in bed waiting for me. Or you’re standing in front of the mirror, examining your nose, as if something’s wrong. Just now, as if something’s wrong, here, in this picture of the room. The light bulb’s crooked, melancholy’s not right. Here’s my face all greased with light. The moment when tattered night – what is it you want? I can’t get out, not yet. I can’t open the door. Just give me a few minutes.
4.
You’re tired of your body, and I’m tired of mine. Both our hands have given up on clenching flesh. Let’s do something else, so we turned on the television. Let’s do something else, so we read the cracked ceiling like fortunetellers in an Antipolo church. Let’s do something else, so in the two remaining hours we didn’t touch. Let’s lie down, look at each other, watch how our faces twitch with every breath. Our bedded bodies, two rivers on the brink of overflowing, the room that drowns me, drowns you.
5.
Bless me and I have sinned. This is my mouth, my ravine stripped of trees. This is my ravine, my mouth stripped of language. This is how I sin: by mixing metaphors. Time turns to water in each room we sleep together. Here, I’ll confess, without greed, without fear. I guarded your sleep like a thief in the night. How your eyebrows meet above your nose like two seasons never meant to coincide. But here we are. You don’t know, but I saw the end and the beginning in your face. There’s a lot I don’t tell you –
6.
Meanwhile, anytime and the phone will ring. The cars outside make no sound. When Antipolo’s quiet, Antipolo’s quiet. After three hours monologuing the television still won’t tire out. It seems to want to die but I just let it be. That’s how I am; I play along. I watch what’s outside myself through iron sights, but can you blame me, a person kept on hold by his own body? I’m done counting ticks of the clock and you’re still sleeping, behind the fences of your dreams, unafraid of running out the hours since where you are, each second’s suspended. Here’s time for those who love: you slept for a breath, but I spent a lifetime watching you.
In Antipolo, I stopped smoking
BY ABNER DORMIENDO, TRANS. BY ETHAN CHUA
If I admit to this - I can already see the look on your face -
but Samantha, believe me,
this isn’t what I wanted. Maybe it’s time
for me to quit
before the doctor calls me to her office,
places the picture of my lungs
beneath the light, points at that cartography: here’s the organ,
and here’s the map of your committed sins.
Look closely, and it’s a map of Antipolo.
Here’s the city center, clotted blood.
Here’s Marilaque Highway, barred with nicotine.
Clumps of waste, pooling in dark patches.
If I called it beautiful, would that make you angry?
I left my body
open like a nation with no memory
of war, so I was conquered.
I let it happen, let myself be conquered.
I’m just blowing smoke, reasons
for what might be illness,
but worse things have come out
of my mouth. For example, a poem.
For example: I’m doing okay. For example: Once,
while having sex with someone else,
I said your name to their face.
Just one night and not again.
I think I’ve learned my lesson.
Later, I’ll exercise,
take a run in the subdivision where I rent my room,
go around in circles until my lungs
explode. It’s better than sitting around sulking.
Better than smoking one more cigarette
in bed, like an exile stranded
on an island where rain
falls in the shape of your eyes,
bombs from an unseen plane.
If that were to happen, in which corner of your skin
could I hide?
True or false: if you return,
this war will end.
True or false: if you return,
this will be the last cigarette
I light to your memory.
