Cocytus Redux

Six days in the ninth circle of hell is enough for one to be denied weeping, five for Marcos Highway. Commutes in supine position, suspended in a lake of cars, trucks, and jeepneys. Hell’s collateral. “For Nana,” as the youngest child begs her reflection to grow wings. Six tries, going on seven. “Mr. Alcantara, plumber-for-hire, if you see the Maya bird with a broken wing,” implores the electric post blooming with adverts, “let him know that he must visit here at midnight, for it is when the ice melts into darkness.” Cries heard from Santolan to Recto Station coalesce into a sigh. The paramedic turns the ambulance siren off, making the good congressman’s siren the last one standing. When did we lose count of our sighs? In drops of tears in Morse Code, we pray: “St. Martin, Patron of Learned Helplessness, deliver them.”