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Traffic
by Cynthia Buiza

Lately, I find myself easily tearful.

It all began when the peso nose-dived again
and finally broke its nose.

At dusk, the acacia tree in my front yard
shivered, like a portent
and a tear in my left eye fell too fast
like something running for its life.

I find myself too, sighing too much.
as though my lungs are all that is left
tangible.

it is worse when I see the moon
over Mandaluyong at nine o'clock
like a jack-o'-lantern, sinister yet real
or when I read the graffiti
at the tragic LRT
bound for its mission to end all traffic
if only we'd stop moving.

yesterday, I spoke with two Batanguenos
who came to Bangkok to pick apples in Sydney
they never made it past the detention center
and they are homeward bound
chewing on grass.

I don't know.
my sighs are growing longer than my patience,
I am shivering like a tree inhabited by carrion crows,
while my countrymen hang their pockets
on the clothesline
waiting for monsoon to end.

 



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