The Queen's Library

Poetry by | May 11, 2014

if it hadn’t been for the books
thrown about by the stairs
I wouldn’t have noticed
how with each purchase
she revealed herself
one on top of the other
covers pressed upon covers
titles lost upon genres
“The Color Purple”
casting shades of “Black and Blue”
on some oriental “La Bete Humaine”
as “Madame Bovary” vanishes to “Sleep”
with Murakami’s elephants
her majesty has yet again
leafed through the truths
of her characters
flung about in the pages
one would dare ask how the King
gets by with such a collection
but would not dare question why
her bookshelves haven’t been built

Margaux Denice Garcia has been a fellow to the Davao Writers Workshop. She teaches literature at the Ateneo de Davao University.


Poetry by | August 11, 2013

and the wantonness of wandering
in New York’s insoluble streets is history
it has been eight hours since
and I am still swamped in a Chinese bus
with twice the number of hours
seated in odds and evens
each with a repertoire of algorithms
I look at them and find no relevance
they look at me and find indifference
I turn up the volume
just as Bono rises at the coda
and bring my backpack closer to my chest
fur coat jostled, PETA be damned
every eight minutes
and I am brought back to the tropical fever
floured living woods
morphing into tall palm trees
bare and proud on a high noon
smooth stretches of asphalt
shaping into potholes and humps
converting devotees to drunken bystanders
and a bump on my head stirs me awake
“Welcome to Chesapeake Bay!”
the signage knifes through the horizon
and the buzz and the bliss of homecoming
fades into a blur
I am home, aren’t I
but then again, never so
I look around and fish for a smile
the same fracture reverbs
no angle of intimacy in this excursion would bring us closer
so I plead for a window
and see the sun’s arms cradling the bay
an indefinite stretch of blue
up ahead
an exponential longing

Margaux Denice Garcia, a graduate of BS Education at the Ateneo de Davao University, was a fellow of the 2011 Davao Writers Workshop.


Poetry by | December 23, 2012

The night is a crude piss
spread out seismically
like a fan of rivers.
I yawn as it muscles for my attention,
tearing me from the wipers and
the shindig of cars dancing skin to skin
in the midst of the rush hour in Bajada.
Slow down.
There’s a pretense suspended
in the polluted air that not even the rain
or the mist of windows can dispel.
Thoughts teleport to a parallel world
where the same conundrum is distracted by
hurrying hands and skidding lips… bodies.
An impatient honk.
Must move forward.
A little more and finally,
the traffic lights
learn to love wide lanes.

Moving Van

Poetry by | October 21, 2012

No, child.
We cannot take Thina, Daimhin, and Muti with us.
They’re too big.
Just put on your Sunday’s best
and tie your hair into pigtails,
so you can resemble your dolls.
That way, you’re bringing them with you.
No, child.
We cannot bring your crayons.
Not even your coloring books or drawing pads.
They’re too many.
Just put on your shoes with your favorite colors on it.
That way, you’re treading on rainbows when we leave.
No, child.
We cannot carry your story books.
They’re too heavy.
Just hold this piggy bank while I take the safe box.
Our arms can only bear so much.
That way, we take only what’s necessary.
No, child.
We cannot tote your play tent.
It’s too big and too old.
Just like this house, worn out and hollow.
I promise, we’ll buy a new one.
Where we’re headed sells better tents.
Hurry, child.
I can see our ride in the driveway.
Dear child, why are you crying?
We don’t have time.
What’s that, child?
No, child. I’m sorry.
We cannot wait for Papa.

Margaux Denice Garcia, a graduate of BS Education at the Ateneo de Davao University, was a fellow of the 2011 Davao Writers Workshop.


Poetry by | July 3, 2011

drink from a cup of bones
eat a pie of decay
bathe in dirt
breathe not fresh air
but poison

gods die
to become men

Margaux Denise Garcia is taking up BS Education at the Ateneo de Davao University.