Tunnel #4 (Clark Freeport Amnesia)
Good morning, Spine. Out there stilt houses
look serious and fine, here we live on echoes
simply spelling the past. I’ve been told
by your sister that your Dad’s growing old
in Kampong Kleang. The sting of war, now stacks
of misery. His farewell letter on the drawer,
just sleeping soundly. Cars driven to drive ego
away and further into a port of somewhere.
Dead batteries tested, windshield washed clean,
ready to shelter no rain, even the 17th fly
coming to feel your spine,
your shoulder blades
the twin tunnels
the rising Phteah Keung
I’m a mess I need to go somewhere else.
The roads, oh they’re paved for your courage,
road signs newly painted though they’re sick
to death of neon. Spine, I wake up early
to catch not the sun but the careful subtext
of your hips telling me that there’s not a day
brighter than your special scrambled eggs.
We seek explanations, we carry flags.
Please remember to feed the cat as ordinary
conversations may sink if your head’s going
from point to point, tropical to jazz.
Please remember your name’s Spine
and your Dad’s gonna call you her baby
and return to change this place into a forest
of Khmer flowers. But you say you’re not Spine
and wasn’t born so yesterday.
Tell you what: your real name’s Soul
and you continue to move places, ports
and bases, Angeles Nowhere,
Clark Freeport Somewhere.
Poetry and airplanes on our roofs!
And you were born in 1987, in the late 60s,
in the Romantic period, in a million fugue
state of 2053. And I was born right next to you.
About the author:
Lawdenmarc Decamora is a teacher and poet from the Philippines. His literary works have been read and published in almost sixteen countries around the world. He wants to be a professional wrestler.