Two poems

 

Hamlet is bleating

I can hold my
breath underwater
for as long as anybody; or,
I just cannot seem to groan enough.

Who will take the shells away
from me? Am I not making waves yet?
I take pains, a turtle-dash a day,
until I get there to claim my pit.

I love the sting of gashes under
my feet. Some skill I never learned keeps
my throat awake to amniotic laughter;
God, am I still aloft this deep?

I just cannot seem to croak enough;
this is the way I want to sign off.

 

Last words

I bother for
a second
opinion on the weather;
I mean, I tend to lose my
way around the familiar.

I have stalled here for too long,
the days of the world begin
to smell; I admit I need
a new shirt to falter in.

Saints and angels are marching
in; I sense something crucial
about to happen. Sendoffs
hem the incorrigible.

There are now enough stones to
go around, dear folks; I guess
I have to show you next a
side of my face that heals best.

I mean, you can shake me down,
cut me all up limb by limb,
and burn what is left of me:
I belong to something green.

Rosendo M. Makabali is a technical writer in a government office and the employees cooperative.
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