I.
Memory fine-toothed,
I learn to miss what threatens
to rot without recognition:
my heart a black river where
I go missing without a cause
II.
In my dreams my father has died
at least five deaths, says he’ll see
me in another life. When?
There’s this one and the ones
we left behind. My father does it
so well: he teaches me how to forget
III.
To the Patron Saint
of the Abandoned, how I bow
to thee, carve myself
in your image, and envy
those who follow you
IV.
In a different memory the man
refuses touch because
he is afraid
V.
To tell a story: to dig until
the hands are raw.
To tell a story (the hands
come up so empty
the hands are gone)
VI.
I raise my hand to my image:
broken gate, rust, land
I must tame, wild brush,
invasive species, antibody, goodbye,
broken, grate, bust, scan,
same, same, same, lust
for nothing, mistaken
body, so I lie—
VII.
Spitting image of a splitting image,
I half my eye;
I wave
VIII.
IF I DON’T ACT ON THIS / IF I DON’T
MOVE THE WAY I WANT TO MOVE /
I KNOW THAT I WILL DIE UNTIL I DIE
IX.
Broken glass—I take my opportunity
with touch—I clean it up—to nurse
the wound all night—to hurt something
to heal—to call it progress
Krysta Lee Frost is a mixed race Filipino American poet who halves her life between the Philippines and the United States. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Berkeley Poetry Review, Entropy, The Margins, Figure 1, wildness, and elsewhere. She is currently pursuing an MA in Creative Writing at the University of the Philippines Diliman.