Cape Fear River, North Carolina
You held hurricanes in your lungs,
the blackwater cough still breathing.
We escaped the waves that tunneled
down Front Street. They were nothing
compared to the bagyos that lacerated
the archipelago you called home
as a child. With our backs to the city
we traced ourselves in chalk. Here is where
we will die. Here we will be little ghosts. I brushed
back your hair & circled your head
with white gritty lines. Elbows jutting like spoons
in moonlight. That night you taught me
your tongue. I carry twin words as fishhooks
in my lips: karagatan for the ocean
& katawan for the rake of your fingers
against my back: the body.
