On rain-spilled mornings like these

i remember
your hands
trapped
under the pillow,
where you hoped
to find some respite
from
the night's wrangling

the night-
jarring,
tearing out
hopes
and magnifying fears

under the pillow,
there were sometimes
a rosary
handed down by
Sr.Christine
sometimes
the one
Mother Damien
slipped into your palms
or the one you bought
with Lilik
at the Intramurous.

under the pillow,
now
there are images
springing from
solicitude