Poetry by | September 15, 2019

In church, my God hangs
half-naked, stuck
to a wooden cross.
In front of him
is a sea of heads.
The fans attached to their hands
swivel back and forth;
gusts of air
gently dry off sweat
from their overdressed bodies.

In church, my God is a disk
as small as a thumbnail.
The hands that receive Him
are decorated in gold, silver,
and dirt. His taste is far from
godly. His heavenly crisp
is softened when he rests
on our ungrateful tongues.

In church, my God hangs
stuck to a wooden cross.
His gaze is always fixed.
He does not go anywhere
even when the seats He faces
become empty.


Koko is a graduate of Ateneo de Davao University. He is currently a public school teacher. He loves vanilla-flavored smoothies.




Poetry by | October 1, 2017

Love starts
as a drop
of water.
It stays still
until it gathers
more of itself
to flow, to gush,
to become a force
that no dam can contain.

You are a body
of water.
Love will claim
every inch of you, too.
It is pointless to resist its rapids.

(Even time stood witness
on how the tallest of mountains
have lowered their bodies
before the crashing waves of
untamable oceans.)

Love submerges,
drowns us deep,
but it is the same thing
that keeps us

Koko is a BSED-English graduate Ateneo de Davao University. He teaches in a public school in Davao City.