Ours was a terrible song, not like the sound
from a full moon’s mouth, nor a wolf’s howling. Most times
we bruise; an endless set of cavities,
the way apples do, teeth marks pebble digging and deep,
the campfire salt of our soreness: our morning mouths
like a screech.
I love you like a love bite not meant:
not in tune to this neck, the train of bones, this railway spine,
the choir of flesh sunbathing under a hurricane sky.
Maybe, we can teach our tongues to move
as if they are wearing a pair of old shoes, perhaps wearing time.
Not having swollen ballerina feet licking the side street
grasses of your skin, of my skin. Where are we? Are we fire still?
All this clacking, heels against the bedroom
floorboards, like a six year old teething away silver.
Is this how coal hold hands still? All ash after.
I have never wanted you
fading, but I will hold you anyway. And our palms.
Our pair of palms can go somewhere where
all these bones can meet a heart, where all these wolves can sing.
Perhaps in age and at night, Kharla Brillo started writing late, with some of her work being mainly published on her blog, Midnight and Metaphors. Several of her prose and poems also appeared in Persephone’s Daughters Magazine, Philippine Daily Inquirer , and Thought Catalog. At current, she’s pursuing her Master’s in Psychology at the University of the Philippines Diliman. Her first poetry book, Other Than Sadness, is a collection of poems hand selected from the first two years of her writing.