Homing Devices

A. dela Rosa

upon discovering the titles, everything here is new for name.

based on the open faucet, he assumes his mother is washing dishes.

until now, he never imagined they would do that to each other.

from this, he plans of doing something similar in the future.

he assumes everyone will eat popcorn and watch fireworks outside tomorrow, 6 am.

even his love.

Travel bags rest on the floor like drunks.

the lotion that burns skin is left uncapped.

he downloads movies in the living room, naked.

“can i scratch my knee for a minute before I burn myself?


just my knee.”

when it storms, he thinks it’s a tribute to black and white film.

now showing: him holding something he forgot


he sees the dronings of the song as colored red, slowly taking over the clouds.

suddenly, he does not eat a bowl of fried rice, but a plate of sushi.




he thinks someone stole the lightbulbs.

the fan has been whirring dust for three days.

every couch is a shelf for                                                                                                                       used clothes,

                                                                                                                                                                         among others.

remember: you can’t bake macaroni with a kitchen sink.

he wakes up wondering where he is.

                                                                                                             fading in, a child cries.

stereo speakers.

and it goes on announcing something about vaccine.