I know you hate me.
And when you raped that girl
I understand I was among those prissy cunts you
wanted torn up. You must have envisioned
telling your story from the point of view of
rivenness? But her blood on your hands,
how does it feel, Vik?
But Vik, if there is one word
to describe my life, undone would be it.
Remember how back in school
our favorite phrase was poete maudite?
We reckoned if we didn’t make a name
for ourselves, we might as well just lie
and lounge among them poetes maudites.
That wouldn’t be so bad, we said.
Then we snickered, hi-fived,
and downed our beers.
But every time I thought of it,
it was like being run over at midday
by a big truck: It limped me for life, Vik.
And Vik, you never said it out loud,
but I heard you:
Nobody wants to be explained away as
thwarted poet;
Nobody wants to be remembered as struck
at midday by a big red truck.
2003
Davao City
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