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.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.