The Dangers of This Craft Ma. Fatima V. Lim Wilson How we sing, even as we are boiled alive. Those who torment us strain to sustain Our last notes. In a landscape Of sameness, our crooked towers scrape Sensibilities, the well-trained eye. Why when starved, do we thrive? Remembrance of childhood’s bread Rising. The taste of dulcified Dropping of air. Our well- Meaning friends beg us, please, Speak in the measured tones Of the mediocre. Show off Our mastery of muteness, The ambidextrous virtuosity Of work-stained hands. Let Those knitting needles, heavy- Handled axes fly. Why must We hear voices? See the moving

Parts of still objects? And so, We insist we no longer see Through whitewashed walls. We confessed our dreams of flying Have ceased. We scheme, The miracle of money keeping us Awake. Our pleasure lies In memorizing the exactness Of recipes. We are found to be Most eloquent when quiet, even As we argue happily with the teeming Inhabitants opening doors in our heads. We stare seemingly unmoved at the fire Of our burning books, all the while Enthralled, reading secrets in the flames. They think they’ve killed us off Even as somewhere, everywhere, a child Recalls the beat of the ocean womb.

They dance upon our tombs, unaware Of how they have fallen Victim to the rhythm Of our singing bones.

gift Ma. Fatima V. Lim Wilson I have imagined Making love with you So often I am pulled ajar When you walk towards me Merely, With all your clothes on. We have come together Countlessly That I can bear the distance Set by furniture and fabrics Intimate friends, the air And worst of all The nights.

I have come to believe In the power of those scenes That when I touch things: Bottles and handles, Light switches, And the soft insides Of fruits, They squirm, Perturbed By the violence Surging through my thumbs.

Strange. You have never kissed me. You brushed my elbow once As we crossed the street And my lower extremities Were honey: Every nerve, pore and cell The havoc Of hundreds and hundreds Of singing, sweet bees.

To R. Ma. Fatima V. Lim Wilson Though you sit beside me, Brush your shoulder against mine, And whisper close enough To lull my cold ear to sleep, I know you are somewhere else. You are in a day-old petal Floating on a puddle Born from last night’s rain.

You are in secret lines I read From some old poet’s heart-tale Which my falling tears reveal, And wash away. You are in the little teeth of biting wind, The outstretched hands of fallen branches, And the silent stranger of a road I trod on Walking, walking home

Your book of rhymes heavy in my folded arms Your voice still in my ears A lullaby of faded flowers Walking, walking home Shivering from yesterday’s rain.

FATIMA LIM-WILSON (1961–) She studied English literature at the Ateneo de Manila University, graduating with a bachelor of arts cum laude in 1982. She traveled to Japan, as a scholar, and studied Japanese literature and language for one academic year. She then moved to the United States, where, in 1985, she earned an M.A. in English literature with an emphasis in creative writing from the State University of New York at Buffalo. She moved back to the Philippines and from 1986 to 1987 worked as the confidential assistant to Rene Saguisag, the spokesperson for the Corazon Aquino administration. When Saguisag won a senate seat, Lim-Wilson served as his confidential assistant from 1987 to 1989. She traveled back to the United States to continue graduate education and completed a Ph.D. in creative writing from the University of Denver in 1992. Just before finishing the doctorate, Lim-Wilson published her first collection, Wandering Roots/From the Hothouse, which won both the Philippine National Book Award and the Colorado Book Award. As a notable success in the world of creative writing, Lim-Wilson has received numerous awards, scholarships, and grants worldwide, which include Palanca Awards (Philippines) and scholarships from the Universities of Vienna and Oslo, Oxford University, Uppsala University in Sweden, and University