In Antipolo, You Can Find a Museum

 I was dragged to by my feet,

 memories misled me

with their leavings, an engkanto

 made my native city strange.

Meaning, Samantha, I’ve been brought here again,

 facing a painting I can’t comprehend:

is its subject love

 or disaster?

In times like these

 when the wind is muggy

and the cars parked by city hall

 rumble their boredom,

 it’s as if everything’s the same.

 Plus, I don’t have the strength or the time

 to divine distinctions,

make out each shape and think,

 yes, this means something to me.

  Like when I looked at the ceiling

 in the room of our last meeting

and whispered to myself, this is it.

 This is the art of all parting—

 your shadow squeezing into your jeans,

  the creak of a door I wished wouldn’t close.

Each line and curve of recollection’s architecture

 was screaming your name. Your face

a painting

 and I the wall on which, by a hook, it hung.