from a


is a kind of











In The Spaces


You can only speak your words (to me)

only in the spaces between

your utterances,

and (Why)

I can only write my words (to you)

only in the spaces between

my texts:


Do you know that I measure time

not by minutes, not by hours,

not by days or nights, but by the


duration of your glance?

And yet here we are, feeling intimacy

only in the way our backs touch,

our faces turning strange

not knowing whether to age or to

remain the same,

for our faces have not faced

since (when?).


If I dared to call out your name,

will you turn to me? Will you let me

be again? Or will you not hear me

because you perceive speech

not by words, not by phrases

not by sound, but by the

movement of my lips?

And you cannot see them,

because we love the way our backs touch.

It ends for us

not knowing whether to turn or

to remain this way,

for our faces have not faced

since (too long ago).


The Youth

And it bothers us how

those heroes, whose names

we couldn’t care less about

died for their mother


as if she ever did them any good.


Yes, we are children

with no navels, no mothers

who graced us with her milk

because she was too dry;

too incapable of nurturing.


In ancient Sparta, they

used to send weak offspring

to meet the elements.

These days we do that to our mother.


Gentle Things

I used to keep roses in my garden.

They were most wonderful:

luscious red petals

silky smooth against my fingers…


I also used to keep rabbits.

They were most gentle:

immaculate white creatures,

hopping about the yard;

free to taste the grass,

to smell the leaves…

but they only had eyes

for roses.


Surprisingly, they didn’t mind the thorns,

the risk of getting pierced was worth taking

for a taste of the nectar dripping

from red veins.


Obviously, I tried to stop them:

I carried the rabbits by their

hungry bellies,

and lifted them

to someplace else,

but they always returned

to where they’ve been,

gnawing and eating,


until what remained were

scraps of what was once

the crowning glory

of my garden.


My roses, killed by mere

gentle things…



Sturdy branches, destined

to grow tall, to bear fruit, to live life.

But the hand that feeds it takes from it

its destiny.


Oh, impaired child, what will she say

When your mother finds you,

Tiny and battered?

Oh, impaired child, what will you tell her

When she weeps for the death that you live?

Will you smile? Will you say you’re fine?

It’s a shame, but I think you will,

After all, you take pride in your




the ones disciplined

yet broken.


Rina Caparras


Rina Caparras writes fiction, nonfiction and poetry. She is a senior student at the Ateneo de Manila University taking up Creative Writing. She also writes reviews for a local magazine.

Listed at Duotrope
Listed with Poets & Writers
CLMP Member
List with Art Deadline
Follow us on MagCloud