haikus by Roger B. Rueda
Brownout again comes—
radio hums, then goes still.
A candle exhales.
Rice tastes like old dust,
sardines float in rusted tins—
still, we eat with grace.
No fish on the shore,
only bones wrapped in plastic.
The ocean forgets.
The mangoes? Gold-priced.
Sweetness too far to reach now.
We chew memory.
Sun carves out our skin—
even the wind hides from noon.
Shadows sweat with us.
Still we smile and wait,
for the sea to bring us back
what the land withholds.
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