Crecien Bencio
Ricepaper 19, no. 2 (2014)
We are a family of thieves. We take your things from the
lost and found: the single wool mitt, the water bottles, the
abandoned umbrellas. We bring our own Tupperware to
buffet restaurants and sit in a booth against a wall, the
perfect formation to transfer food to our laps. The hats
you left at the park after dark, the plastic toys strewn
on the beach become rightfully ours. The novellas you
have yet to read on your bedside table slip into purses
unbeknownst. Your medicine cabinets pilfered at your
housewarming party. Our pockets overflow with packets
of sugar, brown on the left, Splenda on the right, with
stir sticks hidden, like a hair pin beneath our bangs. But
look closely at our hands, for our faces will always be hidden,
in the back of restaurants, in the corners of crowded
rooms, alone, beneath a wall of darkness and trees you
will never see, you will never know, but our hands, flickering
like moths, quick, like paper burnt to ash.
ABOUT THE POET
Crecien Bencio’s poetry has previously been published in Ricepaper magazine. His work revolves around the dynamics of his family and the bridging of Filipino and Canadian cultures. He lives in the Renfrew-Collingwood neighbourhood of Vancouver.