Compartment

There were times I tried to displace

tired memories by taking a letter

and hiding it with clutter

inside a drawer that was not mine.

Once, it held Lola’s trinkets: perfumes,

mirrors, yellowed prayer books,

washed-out scapulars and softened

photographs of post war Philippines.

I thought of age and how many times

I tried to gather memories inside

yet misplace—Viktor, she said,

was the only man she loved;

One could never be sure of the other men

who drifted worlds away with wives

and children. How they must have adored

her dark curls with haranas and dahlias

as her father warned them it’s late.

But I’ve stayed up much later, wakeful,

restless, wanting more time with another.

Today, I keep my letters in the same place;

though I could not comprehend

the source of my homesickness,

it is morning and I’m glad—by now

I’ve ceased to notice the absence.