You told us to travel light,
you who carries the day with a baby
in your arms,
who has seen the myriad wonders
of the world twice over,
who has found that elusive bliss
that has recently just slipped from my fingers.
Travel light, you say, and I begin
to remove what holds me down:
every day and emotion from 2001 to 2004,
old letters that I have never reread,
two songs I don’t ever want to hear again,
an old pair of sneakers,
the rock I kept from a hiking trip in Kanlaon,
the recipe for beef stew that I never mastered,
movie tickets, a playbill of a show I never saw,
and the reason why I had my second tattoo.
But I’m not light enough yet,
so I open my mouth wide and reach in,
and resist the gag reflex
long enough to grasp my heart
and pull it out.
It’s wet with blood and saliva
and the blackness
that oozes out from the aorta.
This muscle is too heavy
and has not done me any good.
My blood will flow
when I write or when I dance.
This muscle just drags me down
and I don’t need it to move forward.
I’m traveling light from now on.
One one-way ticket to anywhere
Somewhere foreign, somewhere new.
Just the clothes on my back,
my passport, and me.