Poetry

Jan Dennis Destajo

Automata

Aquinas pressed
on this in five cuts.

If so, do my fingers—
as I look at them before you
—become meditation?   

Want as a centrifugal force.

(Where does desire begin
to become one

for starters.) Now
every time you ask first I am still
caught off guard. But if I

instead
posit to a negative—like a body
rejecting a transplant—
are you still supposed to love me?





Almost As If The Moon Only Unpeels Each Night You Ask For Something


Almost as if the moon only unpeels each night you ask for something    
I cannot give. A voice; a face; a way—to make you human.

Because in the dark we all look the same. We offer ourselves
to these pursuits despite the hour behind the light

of our screens that cast no silhouette for our windows.

No form
for our eyes to trace from.

Which portion is the skin?
The one that outlines the city as we will part?

Is it on?
I know

the only way to understand is by our hands

as to morning so barren when dreamless
as to ripeness being only with fruit.


Jan Dennis Destajo currently works in an architecture firm in the Philippines. He graduated from the University of Santo Tomas where he won awards for his poetry. With his friends, he co-founded a small art collective, Kalapati Retrograde, that produces zines and chapbooks. He takes care of his orchid he bought for his new home in Quezon City.

Emily Corwin