Weaving the Sunlight and Other Poems

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2 min read

Weaving the Sunlight

The morning is gloomy. I sleep
while the sun kisses my face, softly,
the warmth cradling my breaths.
I wonder if I ever miss anything, like
morning dew
or the steam from my mother’s
cup of tea. She says,
the early bird gets the worm!
Or sometimes
laments that I’m a woman
who wakes up late in the afternoon.
Woman. It sits weirdly
at the tip of my tongue, like
a jagged marble.
I always want to be
soft, whimsical, empathetic,
twirly. And still keep
the jagged parts inside of me.
I’m a silhouette, an idea
of a person, a nonbody
in its abundance
lazing around
in the afternoon.


I was a child
living between my
fantasy and the humiliation
that came with it

The murmur of the radio
at one am, spouting
filthy stories
And I listened, enraptured
Your smirk, a false god
I never believe in the sacredness
of our bodies anymore

But the shame that lingers!
My sweaty palms praying to God
or grazing the surface of my own skin

I don’t choose between either.
Here is their peculiar child
and the loveliest of them all.

prayer / compulsion / no, prayer

Please don’t let me die, I mumble
As the finger inserts my body
and prunes, once, twice, silence
No climax, or bending
the back of my body
like they told in crude poetry

I can’t feel anything, and yet
I try I try I try

Please don’t let me die, I pray
in between my pain
that comes and goes as it pleases
I whisper to the cold fiber of
my praying clothes
and bury myself in their comfort

As I mask my desire
For the sake of salvation

Please don’t let me die, I am
counting the name
of You
in odd numbers

That Day, when We Cried Praying to the Catholic God

Two weeks ago,
I opened my window
in the middle of the night
and thought to myself, “Wow.
I’m not afraid of this.”

I like the flickering lights from
across the street
As if the neighbor is watching me
Screaming miserable miserable is us!
But maybe that’s the loneliness in me
imagining things.

My curtain is lanced and fiery
and filled with curiosity
And at night they bloom into a fantasy
I stand with my bare skin, nervous, like
the school girl that I always am
Waiting for a friend to accompany
And the constant giddiness
from knowing that I somehow
have grown into a lady.

Let’s pleasure each other from afar
And burn the scented candle light
As if a hymn has soared into the lightless sky.

The fluttering wick we used to burn at school
I prayed to never mingle with the sinners
The teacher’s breath blowing toward the flame,
sending the smokes as little messages.

We are whole now
Let us try
not to be obedient for once.

Taman Budaya

I speak in a language I can’t recognize
And live by undoing the space this world has crafted me

one thread at a time
I weave the moonlight and the water
that washes your hair down the drain
as a piece of fabric I sleep on

In this universe we are one, and yet
pieces of you are piercing

In my hours of solitude,
your kindness is the jagged piece
I’m letting in.


Editor: Moch Aldy MA

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