Snapdragons on Venus
I’m in New York when I get the call. I contemplate your operation all day, wondering if the surgeon will find butterflies gasping within you. Last March, I would have died to be this happy. The world is burning but at least I’m still here. Do you think our sisters in Venus also loved their nephews? Did they ever grow hungry? One day, our oceans will desiccate too, and someone will write poetry about it. I wonder if their gardens rioted like yours once did. I’m naked in bed when I tell her — the love of my life is dying. I’m being hysterical again, I know. Mom was too, before I left. Your body, a symphony of tumors, myomas shrieking in the interlude. From my window, I watch the sky smolder into orange nothingness. This time tomorrow, I’ll be in Austin.
But you’ll still be home in Manila, bathing in blue light.
Narisma is a writer and artist from the Philippines. His work has appeared in Body Without Organs, Atticus Review, and Oyster River Pages, among others. He is currently based in Brooklyn, New York. Find him on Instagram at _narisma_.
A Song for Narisma