written by: Marla Lacherza Bracco
The reason he was in the Philippines was for Arthur
digging dirt against the cement, treading sand—wishing
for snow, inside his father’s sandals, he fell down
into the torrid air, he prayed to somebody—for something
Punch-drunk, he hit the part of his head doctors call the occiput
against the ivory cobblestone—he laid flat next to an Akapulko plant,
Aroused by the scent of neighborhood honey rum and grilled bananas,
he thought in China and in Germany—walls are more famous than people.
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