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| NICCOLA ROCAMORA VITUG |
| Bubble Poem |
| THE AUTHOR HOLDS THE COPYRIGHT TO THIS POEM. THIS IS POSTED WITH PERMISSION FROM THE TRANSLATOR. |
| THIS IS PART OF THE LITERATURA READING SERIES | CLICK HERE TO GO BACK TO LITERATURA |
| In the morning at four,
I make our bathroom my little haven. Unpainted walls and a peeling plywood door, this is where I take myself out of this shanty colony. It’s fairly simple: I splash myself with cold water scrub my body with soap and wash my grimy hair with a bit of shampoo. I can do many things thanks to the suds on my body. I twirl my hair with my hands as if they were two huge tongues licking a vanilla sundae. I gather the bubbles on my arms and blast all the cockroaches like a real Super Saiyan. I slick my hair back then strut around my chin up as I model a white-sequined gown. I curl my bangs into a tiara and cover my hands and forearms with sparkling gloves of lather. I spread it like a lotion even to the spaces between my toes so I am filled with the sweet fruity scent. That is, until Mother starts banging on the door. While walking to school, I’ll see the children in Benzes and Revos making faces at me, and I’ll feel the dust and the smoke sticking to my skin. |