Eileen R. Tabios
I Forgot the Language of Scars
I forgot releasing breath to describe milk transformed by your scent.
I forgot the taste of your mouth was song of licorice.
I forgot a snowfall of daisies whose mottles under moonlight twinkled like a saddhus eyes.
I forgot to be human is to be forgiven.
I forgot part of mortalitys significance is that wars end.
I forgot the pillow still shielding a stray tooth because someone believed in a fairy tale.
I forgot that if you call an island Isla Mujeres, half of the population will be anguished.
I forgot the damp eyes were mine.
I forgot the charm bracelet that required only one charm.
I forgot the tea leaves I brought back from a tiny stall in Kathmandu.
I forgot saying things Id never said before.
I forgot the boy grinning as he folded silver foil into an eagle.
I forgot the starving Arab boy who wove a rug now hanging above the Spanish Queens bed.
I forgot that, sometimes, the world should be veiled.
I forgot popcorn spilt on the floor of a darkened movie theaterwhen butter gleamed, the dispensable became nuggets of gold.
I forgot dew lingering on a carnation corsage left on a bench.
I forgot the Ideal Violet whose petals blush during the lemonade days of summer.
I forgot lurking forever in a red telephone booth to look up at rain and your window.
I forgot my son flinging his leather jacket over a puddle intersecting with my path across Bluemner Street.
I forgot the neighbor hiding behind a curtain as he wrote a haiku about a thief tangoing with his shadow when the moon appeared.
I forgot my sympathy for tender hours.
I forgot losing the language of scarswe shook lanterns to bestow frankincense and myrrh.
I forgot you spilling vermouth on the sky.
I forgot the Jessamine wafting over the paddock.
I forgot the joy of eliding the vocabulary found in margins.