Number 8 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

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Untitled by lindsaysdiet
Untitled, a photo by lindsaysdiet on Flickr.

It was a face which darkness could kill
in an instant
a face as easily hurt
by laughter or light

‘We think differently at night’
she told me once
lying back languidly

And she would quote Cocteau

‘I feel there is an angel in me’ she’d say
‘whom I am constantly shocking’

Then she would smile and look away
light a cigarette for me
sigh and rise

and stretch
her sweet anatomy

let fall a stocking

to Vita

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Dear Vita,

I sit in silence with God. Neither of us utters a word as we gaze at the painting above the votive candles in St. Shoghakat church. Shogakat – light that drips. Children of God hold their palms facing up to catch some of the divine light and sip it in their mouth, asking for more and more. God stays silent as I start weeping. Time is an ancient instrument that ruffles lovers’ hearts, plucks out the feathers of our wings. I weep. God cafunes me as I shut my eyes and cry with silence, my shoulders shaking with ruffled, messy wings. Angels of God, look at us and sigh.
“Wait for me, mahal ko. We are almost there. The storm is almost over. Wait for me.”