Lawdenmarc Decamora
Quarantine: A Song
Somehow the cure is kept
in the hips of the wind,
in the neck of the trees
in your village where
you waited for me
to declare, oh, my mouth’s
a closed souvenir shop.
There was in my breathing
an image long quarantined,
a feeling squirming
through tiny cracks
and tight checkpoints.
A fresh start to trace
my path to your fever
dream’s thousand tremolos.
I kept silent, my lips fuller
from your pain’s sweet
medicine. They’re wet
with what you’ve overcome.
And like sugar in the new
normal’s breath, you gave
me morning, my dear,
as you gave abundance
to agriculture. Light
would embrace the shades
again. I thought I saw you
standing by the silver lake,
and then I thought
I found the cure.
