By Louyzza Maria Victoria H. Vasquez

A moment stretched — as far as the ends of this cove — no one in sight, rainclouds threatening to take over the sea — its source — this openness of space, feeling, possibility, yet inside there’s no movement — what is more permanent than breathing? If it is possible to be inside an inner box, then have on repeat: a child giggling, a wave wipes him out, ocean a metaphor we keep using over and over, he stands up, wave wipes him out again, a giggle — instead, let’s joke about the banana having heart. Deep down it’s true, when you peel the layers — people have a hard on for murder as long as its “bad” people — the placid smiles, we eat in fancy restaurants, gasp at honor killings, raise LGBT flags, but what of humanity? What of a criminology student who ran into “bad” company? What of a father and son — who surrendered btw — killed in prison? How many guns can be stolen? How many packs of shabu seized? To make sense of it — no, no, not to make sense of it — where is poetry’s place? Staying staring at that sea, pretending the boom of waves is the sound of a plane taking off, wondering whether the earth’s deep reflects its space — protecting my son. Mystery might as well be this naïveté and ruthlessness waiting to get us all killed.

This is just the beginning.