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.