Light breaks the window. You don’t recognize light as a hard hitter. Moonlight moonlighting as meteorite, curtain rod come loose, cabinet collapsed at dawn, a sign you must go out into the world, received by the reproduction of gardenias and orange blossoms hungry for visitors. Love bends the balcony in water weight. Once, a neighbor cried out for help, collapsed under the collapsed trellis of passion flowers. Maybe the best omen for moderation is the thing we love pinning us down. I check the value of my house on Zillow. My house moonlights as a more expensive house online. Even the comfort of numbers scares me. Then there is the comfort that the end of us isn’t the same as the end altogether.
Asa Drake is a Filipina American writer and…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, November/December 2022