NaPoWriMo#14: Smell of Rain

Smell of Rain

By Justine C. Tajonera

The sirens from fire trucks have been ringing
for days. The heat makes me think of July two
decades ago when we knew that the rain would
come. First, I could feel it in the air and then
I could smell it as if the ground was coming up
to meet the condensation from the clouds. It came
with grass and snails and fallen leaves. And
afterwards I would read by the window.
I always wondered why school needed to start
during the wet season. I'll sleep remembering
the rain tonight, curled up like a ball of seed
waiting to unfold.

NaPoWriMo#10: Undone

Undone
By Justine C. Tajonera

The heat has stolen my words.
At noon, the air is still and humid and presses
against me as I leave the building. I shield myself with
an umbrella but my head has already started to pound.
Last Tuesday I heard in the news that the temperature
in Quezon City was the same as a slight fever.
Last summer was the hottest on record.
It may just be eclipsed.
I try to remember days as hot as these. I cannot.
Another thirty days like this is unbearable.
In the poles, I imagine ice shelves sliding into the sea.
I can almost see the arms of coral reefs bleaching
in agony. I have something to do with this
that cannot be undone. Forgiveness will not soothe
the earth, the air, the oceans. But it is forgiveness
that I ask for in this enveloping, inescapable
hell of heat.