Poems by Melanie Manuel
reflection inside 7-eleven
after chungking express (1994)
the paper—now rumpled
& waterlogged—spins
slowly on a bed of metal,
its message obscured, though
the sense of it remains. it is
here, he waits. wants nothing
more than to see if on this
small paper now no longer a
napkin, but a boarding pass drawn
in ink, describes a destination
ahead for them—him & the artist
filled with dreams, endlessly
sleepwalking through life. how
now despite their fifteen-hour
difference away, it goes without
saying we are measured by
the sheer millimeters between
our shoulders as we walk through
the city streets, each day new to this
possibility that someone somewhere
could, in fact, matter more than
what lies at the end of the block,
if only chance permits. without
certainty, he stays. continues to see
each letter form just a little more.
ghazal of tongues
at birth i already know how to separate body & tongue
i have no way to go back this place i do not know not through body not tongue
i was five when i learned how to read peter pan each sound of the words
as airy as pixie dust with time the ones considered my mother’s heavy on the tongue
it’s interesting how you can fold it in half, move side to side, a real work of art
a boy once said he learned my body through filipina porn said i could do plenty with tongue
to dream is to be outside of oneself i often find myself watching the mirror
watching the body move as if for the first time opening its mouth: just a tongue
just a hollow where language should be resides somewhere deeper untouched
what remains: only smoke feels familiar, each utterance mapped now through tongue
& i was named for this darkness melanie an expression of heft & shell i call
body i call stranger home this a culmination of imprints, mine this tongue
Lucid Dreaming
I laid awake in my grief
waiting to be swallowed—
frozen—the darkened edges
beside this body, an abyss
waiting to be swallowed—
its crimson eyes met mine
beside my body, an abyss,
the inevitable: it licked—
crimson eyes meeting mine,
my cheek, hot breath fanning—
the inevitable: it licked
across slick skin, pressed flush
against me—the walls crying—
the sting came—burrowed deep—
across slick skin, a burning—
inside, murmuring a story
the sting came—burrowed—
frozen—I knew not the words—
across slick skin—only prayer—
I laid awake in my grief
watching wong kar-wai’s fallen angels (1995) for the first time
beneath a darkening sky,
backdropped by a treeline
of gnarled branches, on an empty
street in the neighborhood
where my yellow-blue childhood
home remains.
we are not unlike
the hitman’s assistant
& the mute ex-convict
on the motorcycle
at the end of the movie—
mid-dance, a series
of coming together &
apart, again
& again, as if
as if there is something
to lose in never returning.
hands clasping
& unclasping, as if
the very act of letting go will
affect
what it means to say,
i want to see you happy.
see the other again.
in their words, they have rubbed
elbows enough
to know there is no spark,
share this one ride
together, a tiny flicker of
something
hers pressed to his. his pressed
into hers. a moment
we have all been waiting for,
like a breath releasing, the heaving
only one feels after holding
& holding, until there is no other
option but to open up
