what feet will you wear today

Bea Racoma

those of rat-chewed rubber or calloused clay?

onto which ground will they lay siege the weary

war thrum of moon-crater skin, led by toes that

have counted pedometer mileage between

sink and bed;

and what hands: latex powdered ripped from

hummingbird, or slime-coat fishbone palengke

plastic, what fingers etch salt mines into eyelid

and titanic cheek as they recall very faintly the

phantom landscapes of another;

what tongue clicking teeth should taste test menu of

volcanic ash and dolomite but bite back in concrete,

what muscle to cut like farmer’s bolo only to drip

slobber that washes away into drain into canal into

saltwater lungs;

what ears can bear breathing of brothers broken on

sidewalks like used posporo: or are there even

such ears to wear, are these ears meant to crumple

at wailing as cicada season dissonant choir or

remain unfurled to silence;

whose body will you become by the next midnight

primetime? will you be a body of khaki slacks and

sacks with traces of guts blooming within cuticle,

body of takeout revolution, of quiapo nazareno

streets, body beneath soil or house—all open as

the ears, drenched in torrential tongue, with worn

feet uncovering warmth.