If a new life begins after each blackout,
all the ghosts in this house would have to wake
from their slumbers. the last man
steps out of the Makabarta
and it seems like learning jazz again.
we walk into the boneyard
with stereos muffled in our stomachs.
the path of dust
in between the graves lead
to another freshly dug hole, a space for a new beginning.
over new heaps of brown soil,
only few had epitaphs, I assume
none of their lovers found a tongue to fill the cabinets
with a song that’ll round off the edges of their emptiness.
This, like the night when thunder
unbuttoned the sky, to give space for the wandering shadows,
I feel my bones reverse to be tendons again.
on the grave marker, I see names that sound too close to mine
and dates as close as the day before.
a piece of her bedsheet was wrapped around her marker
as if to remind us all
that only the living should crave warmth,
because the sky has never been closer
no matter how high we jump.
Here, the gates are opened for goats
to wander and graze upon all that grows for staying long beneath the ground.
I see taro leaves sprouting
from the plain ground, waiting to be dug.
the last man steps out of the Makabarta,
this time, he looks behind –
a bird perched on the new marker.
until another will be planted
does any part of the graveyard remain plain
until it becomes a new country?