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
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.