Euri Carreon

​To Atis,

Sweet stricken fruit
                     of knowledge, neither
revokes the need
        to seek a thing of citrus.

                     Better yet, find it near
galleons of old Manila
                in a platter; fractured
at the kitchen in a ceramic
                                         bowl—can never be linked
                      with tints of summer’s rust.

The taste: pale flesh
                                     and adolescence

fresh off tropicality.
                                On variations:
                      the threats of falling branches,
                                              epitaphs of broken arms,
          now an autopsy of childhood
history.

                   Now you see it’s arabesque
                                                suckled black seeds of
kinship longing. Poisonous
                            seeds, fragrant foliage
of ripen memories.

                          Arrest your hands in mine
         as I whisper to your mouth,
                     an anecdote of coiled bodies,
        by virtue of green pearls,
                                      sop of sap, an antidote
             to soft bruising—So to recap,

Take a bite, slice, do it gently,
                      and remind ourselves; the coming

                      of no winter, without ache.

After Sappho

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About the Author

Euri Carreon was born and raised in Bulacan, Philippines. He is a 19-year-old undergraduate pursuing a BA in Comparative Literature at the University of the Philippines Diliman.