Lorhenz Lacsa is writer from the Philippines whose works mostly revolve around identity, struggle, gender, and the revolution. As an activist, he believes that all works of art should be driven by a purpose. He’s a cat person.
tender was the skin that reached
these hands that mid-September,
and with his manner of insistence,
i willingly ceded – feyly, slightly
dirtied, ordained. he braced my ribs
for a sting held with every stroke,
fondling these, an exorcism for the
sinner I would finally become.
but while i quivered and while he knew,
the road to nowhere stiffened,
so he bid adieu, and then nothing.
that winded up, winds up no more
now, mid-August, when the untrained
still try but fall delicately wet. hanging
on the balance when we started to choose,
and the thread of destiny rolls.
the hell we are but who
and who we fight,
and who we follow
far far behind.
Common is to love as to be an object
Prized and to be shelved, and equal
The value of those hands that hold—
The lover, whatever form they take.
And as imperative as consumption,
We exhaust little by little as mounts
To stones, until no more can be said
About love but reception, a cigarette
Smoke, only that the cigarette butt
Is puffed again by another mouth.
And you should know by now that
These hands are animals longing
For a herd, folding and opening as
Slowly as the sun silences the stars
Come dawn. And as sunbursts sweep
The ground, and as unsolved hearts
Cause somatic pain with its bends.
Lead me here to where it all ends.
Somehow it’s an act still forgivable
By pain and the insisting feelings
Still not named. And tonight we’re not
Stoking the fire, no one will burn.
Tonight, I will remember
That somewhere, I used to belong.