From Katipunan to Philcoa

In the pickup
he runs his thumb
along the seam
of his jean thigh

imagine the hot metal
against your skin
like that

through the words
into the stars
into our laps
he says: and she was the youngest

wind cuts
through the open bed
like a flame

she was eighteen

In the street
when we met her
she leaned and joked
how her waistline
was now bigger
than back then

now I remember
her skin
and the way
that it clung
to her arms
how the soft part
of the wrist--
no matter how often it scarred--
would never get used
to the heat

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