Two Poems
Thirst
There is a bird that keeps
crashing into your window,
mistaking your desire for sky.
It is the rhythm of the ribs’
hymn returning to itself
in the hush after midnight. You kneel
on the tiled floor, repeating
a name you haven’t said in years.
What you want is not
resolution, but contact: the exact
pressure of a hand around a wrist—
not to restrain, just to anchor.
You are desperate for one thirst
in your room that can be filled.
What the Moon Could Make You
Every day you wash your hands
like you’re preparing to hold something
important: a bird, a name you haven’t said
in years, your own patience.
There’s a bruise on your thigh
you don’t remember earning.
Still, your fingers go to it—
not for the pain, but the proof.
Tonight the stars feel
closer than they should.
You stand still long enough
& even your shadow starts
to leave. You hunger for what
the moon could make you.
Jessie Raymundo is a poet and educator from the Philippines. In 2024, he was awarded a Brooklyn Poets fellowship. His poems have appeared in TAB: The Journal of Poetry & Poetics, The Madrid Review, South Dakota Review, North Dakota Quarterly, and elsewhere.
