By Natasha B. Gamalinda

Inside this poem

I am trying to find out

what went wrong: everything is

in sepia, as it should be

in dreams where we see

in black and white, but then

something keeps on staining

everything orange. My grandfather

drags a dead leg towards his bed,

and I know am not born yet, only

I sit here on a couch forming

Le Guin’s brown wounded,

waiting for grandfather to turn

into a tree, which has always been

a probable ending, I think,

but then he interrupts me, begins

another story, Have you ever seen

so many tall bright windows?

Natasha Gamalinda joined the Varsitarian during her Junior year as a Literature major in AB. She was a literary writer during her first year, and literary editor in her second year. She’s currently pursuing her masterals in creative writing at the UP.