The guitar holds us lifting releasing the strings of our lives. A match flares. Song gifts speak what cannot be spoken. Outside the moon weaves silver grasses soft questions weaves a soul song still. The rolled leaf wick fades.
Soft insect slaps, a child's protest punctuate half-sleep.
Cold seeps through floor cracks. Restless I strain at the silence. The memory of an armed man's face swathed bandit like, cap erasing eyes, intimidates sleep. Once brown hands reached for boongon tearing husks away cradling fruit's tender tang, reached for coconuts slicing them wet dripping from chin and hands, scraping meat with carver's care, child's delight. Once brown hands poured water splashing into clay pots, forced the grinding stone, tended orchid bursts, fed the fire.