Plucked Chicken Poem by RIC BASTASA

Last night I stood before

Lolo Enggoy’s mirror

When he died in April

I never cried

In the holes of my eyes

I jump

Into the suicidal cliffs

Of his death

Carrying with me my fingers

My hands

I travel where I come from

Where there are no footprints

Into blindness into nothingness

Into vast dark silences

I return to the surface

Of my eyes—

The mirror breaks to the floor

In a hundred bleeding piece