by Isabela Banzon

Middle of the affair is to be in nowhere.
There are no stops for getting off.

On the stoplight-yellow couch, your kid,
The apple of your eye, the scent of ripening fruit all over.
Crisp is the air and you, fragrant as the night.
On the video, the fantasy begins.

To be in the middle is the tug of cloud and telephone calls.
The children are on the line.
Mine, south of the city, two in America.
Yours, 15; name's Eva.

You're not a cloud, but the deep-blue midnight sky
Though, of course, I know you're real.
Virgo collides with Aquarius,
Fate the conjunction of our billions of thought moments.

Fighting with your lover and me wishing you well
Were things to do on a starry night.

I ate pizza with big kid, kid 2; too tired, you too
Ate pizza with your kid, but still
The red-hot quadrangle of love competed with the stars.

This December, the monsoon rain's awry
And storm clouds hover over the bed of parenting.
Your words on mine, mine on yours, blanket our kids
Who are everywhere, while you and me are in nowhere.

My orphan, we will meet
Face to face, says your seer.
Orchard dreams will bloom again in spring
Which in effect will bear fruit in my summer.

Mimpi indah.
Beautiful dreams.

To be in the arms of lamplight is, simply, emptiness.
Once understood as madness, all is understood.
The middle's in nowhere.