Issue No. 3

Bumangon ka isang araw noon
upang tabasin ang kasiyahang
ayon sa sukat ng iyong katiwasayan. 
Pinagtagpi-tagpi ang mga bahagi,
magmula: manggas, bulsa
hanggang botones. 
Binusisi ang bawat sulok,
tinastas ang mga tutos na hindi
umayon sa nararapat sa linya. 
Pinatakbong muli ang mga daliri
sa paisa-isang tusok ng karayom
sa lunan ng kapanganakan ng ligaya. 
Nang matapos,
agad mo namang sinuot
ang bunga ng itinanim mong pagsusumakit. 
Isinayaw kapares ang yakap sa sarili. 
Hindi mo na pinatahan ang awit ng
kaluguran; ang tugtog na nagbibigay hudyat
sa pagbalse, bawog at hayon-hayon. 
Hanggang sa kumatok muli sa pinto
ng 'yong kaluluwa ang mga pilas ng
kalungkutang naiwan mo sa nakaraan — ang
mga retaso ng pagsisisi. Lubos kang
nagalak sa pagpunas ng tigmak
mong pawis. Nakaligtaan mong magligpit
ng mga panghihinayang, dalamhati't
paninimdim, dahil ang mga patibong
ay lingid sa nakikita. Pagkatapos ng pananahi, 
isasayaw ka na naman ng lumbay.

As you tell me about my younger brother’s death, this house seems like a river mouth, the watercourse debouches into a sea. Then a boat is leaving to the other side of the earth. A child’s last breath marks an unmappable seascape in your memory. How the morning mourns with a mother: dismantle or burn the house in which her son died.

Five years ago, you narrated to me the story of the bones of your great grandmother, how the skeleton was removed, given a ritual cleansing in the barrio, placed in a small chest—preserved and carried it along if the family decided to move in Cebu. And you tried to remember the childhood stories of your mother during the war. Then you cried, Mama. As if I saw all your great grandmothers crying in front of me. I knew it was not about Lola. I did not know how to tame the currents within you. You were still remembering the tidal bore and erosion in the riverbank when everyone was almost near the waves of the sea.

The self is a resting place—an estuary, where the water from the river meets the sea, reminding of arrivals and departures. In the old Visayan culture, when all the healing rites failed to revive the moribund, there was one last desperate ritual to call back the departed soul. A coconut shell of water was placed on the navel while chanting, “Uli, uli, kalag.” Come back, soul, come back.

“Mama, I imagine you with those lullabies instead of those chants.”

In the afterlife, a boat will arrive, filled with stories from the childhood of your grandmothers—sinking and slowly turning it into reefs on the sea floor. Only the sea's humming and the mellow voice of my brother when he will call you Mama for the first time, shall be heard.

Your soul will always seek your womb. This world will own too many kinds of dying. But hopefully, death will be kinder than the earth.

American Immigration Ballad

Visa      one            Dependents          three
            As a tourist then to work
Twelve more years and the kids had grown
            into proper English-speaking jerks
Parking tickets            Lights left on
            Didn’t even call their mother
Drug use            Teen pregnancy
            One married and divorced the summer
before turning twenty-seven
            Just one degree between them
so when orders of removal came
            they turned EXTRAmerican
They paid lawyers to make papers
            One qualified for DACA
The other went to mosque and church
            read Whitman            Plath          Baraka
Found poetry less opaque
            than law      Jaw aching      pained
singing bodies electric
            naked      charged      staking claims
Three kids      US citizens all
            The oldest would lament
Your honor      I was just a boy
            Not even a news event
Look at me      It was simpler then
            No fence      No cage      No war to flee
He practiced in the mirror
            all night            told the tale dutifully

The Therapy Intake Form Asks What I’m Afraid Of

I’m so afraid of anger
I’ll do anything to avoid it.
I’ll look past the belt
buckle in my father’s hand.

I‘m so yoked to a tragic pose.
This is not a running
kind of place. When I say
go, you can go, but this

is a no-go zone. The kids
need to know where they are
welcome. Here, in this place—
there, somewhere else—a felled

jiggling mass of reddish flesh.
A flush. A lash. A flurry
of weathered leather. A little blood
on the fin but still the bomb went in.

I don’t mean to offend, but
a suicide is a means to an end.
I think of death—my most-oft
posture as I imposter yet another

impossibly beneficent room.
Of this I‘m positive: I left
out the part where I kissed my son
like he’ll never see me again.

Lady of the table,
whose worship I
have not learned:
please forgive my 
manners, the way
that I need a spoon
for my dumplings.

If I could translate
my nervous silence into  
a voice laden with 
courage, I’d ask you
to pass the sweet
and sour pork by 
myself, but here is
a fistful of rice – 
here is a prayer for
the people who will
sit in this same spot,
long after my soup
has gone cold and
all the vegetables 
have rotted:

may their tongues go 
unscalded, and may
their chopsticks snap
clean down the middle,
and may they have the
courage to answer every
question your ahma will
ask. I have talked this

circle into the shape of
an open mouth, into an
apology for my silence,
and now all I’ve left is
hope – that when they
find themselves with 
empty plates, they will

know to stay a bit longer
after they have said
their thanks.

Sa sikot ng Sumulong bumulong
ang kampana ng bundok. Ang pook, pinanahanan 
ng mga gusaling animo’y ulap 
sa pananaw ng ilang 
ibayong siyudad.

Sa tarik ng landas, bakas ang pagsubok 
tungong Nuestra Señora de la Paz y Buen Viaje.

Ilang libong hakbang pa kaya 
hanggang huling hingalong hininga
upang masumpungan ang pagpapala
sa paanan ng simbahan
sa rurok ng kalupaan?

Antanda, antanda...

Ganito pala kalayo
ang lapit ng Poon
Sa pusod ng lungsod ng Antipolo.

after "The Parable of the Sparrow" by Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta

Remember Bao? How diabetes got the best of him? That weeks before his passing his right leg had been amputated? Or was it the left one? The answer depends on the apán of Purok 2, Brgy. Palaka. One day, Bao made his own dance studio out of sticks and fervor. The next day he taught us how to break our bones so easily. Back then, Bao seemed like a real instructor of a real company. And we, his willing students. Yet the blight never truly parched. The summer rain was unforgiving. At 8, I attended his wake. Sporting a sky blue shirt, I animated his favorite tinge. My sister and I sat in the palest row. Stillness. She wept without sound. She wept with tears that rivaled Bao’s mother. She wept and wept as if she were his lover. On the backs of my hands were dots forming a map. Trust his way, my sister said. Then I shut my eyes. Flash aplenty. The scene morphed to me waltzing with herons. We leapt from storm clouds to carabao ponds. The fields of palay and tubo seemed horizonless. Tricycles soared with their vrooming. Nothing made sense until Bao arrived, dressed in white. Long have I waited to see him again. My muscles went supple. Only he was the true choreographer. Only he was the one who knew the subtlest gesture of happiness.

Mighty Quiet

for Ate Susan F. Quimpo (1961-2020)

There is so much to say of this
mighty quiet. Let us begin here
in murk of struggle, a manuscript

is but scraps of notebook paper
smuggled into prison cell, into
forever, wherever there is deep

listening, wherever we are
waist-high in river, wherever a
marxism fumbles out of my

mouth, wherever the river mouths
a psalm, wherever that psalm is
glass bottle, gasoline, cloth, and

flame exploding on government
wall. Gutter stream is context for fish
trapped in net, sugar trapped in blood,

blood and children rushing downstream,
down this very street. This sacrifice: body
of carabao halved, its hooves tender

on asphalt, a weeping, a sobbing, a
yearning—smallest of axes hacking
sky then flesh, hacking flesh then

sky: we wade again in another river.
Wherever we slip on tiny stones,
wherever a small mound is too

steep, wherever our syllabus wages
war against erasure, wherever we
crawl through windpipe of mountain,

hike in a cave of bats, dip in dark water
glorious. You—on a beach elsewhere,
sustained in hymn and footnote

somewhere. Let's steep these
Sagada tea leaves longer than usual.
Let's be an explicit trouble of study,

a specificity of practice, in monkey
dance, biting black and gold tapestry.
Wherever ancestors smell matches,

hear the cool of acoustic, historical
reckoning in expanse of lung. This
loss is but a harvesting of the dreamt,

a vastness of rice terrace—
perspiring shamans, their teeth dark
red with betel nut, humming literatures

for the wild boar departing—meat for
the estranged. There is salt, uncertainty,
and plastic cups of Red Horse. Strum

guitar—this is a mighty quiet for you,
sister of salvaged young, mothering and
mothering many: on a humid evening,

you say my life's work is to write
the story of my mother, the hurt
in an anthem. Wherever there is

so much song, so much promise, so
much to say of this mighty quiet:
this anthem, this anthem, this anthem.

The Pressing Honesty of the Dead

Imagine the pressing honesty of the
dead. Imagine water inside of what
gets remembered, what gets remembered 
inside the pink glow of an uncle's surgery
scar, what scars from capital. This quiet
in excess of crisis: In the backyard, on the
folding table, is a round tupperware
of buko salad. There go langaw langaw
everywhere everywhere. These sort of
things migrate. These sort of things thesis.
These things make mess, an artist's guide—
a queer genealogy that goes and goes.
Yes, this mourning, this mourning is.
There goes auntie protecting the buko
salad with a hospital blue shower cap.

Isaac Prepares to Sacrifice Abraham

There is no incentive
for another prayer.
It could well be

a ram ensnared
in a provident thicket
waits. The stories

that come after us
will bind me as well—
to truth, or a promise,

or to a power
that is not mine.
Let us take our time

in our walk up
the mountain. The dialect
of the wind at this altitude

wears different shapes
and pitches. Trembling pebbles
register our steps.

I have never seen an angel.
I want to make you laugh.
It breaks my heart to see you tired.

I look at your hands,
the same ones
that have instructed me

on how to plunge
a good blade into good meat,
like so, like so,

hanging slack,
unoccupied by ritual.
To spend time like this.

This is a faithful body.
I expect bone and sinew
to cooperate, and it does.

I have known you
for as long as you
have known me.

The sky is not a mirror.
The earth is not a mirror.
I avert my eyes

from your eyes.
This is the only way
I know how to be brave.

Thank you for everything.
I have to be the one
who obeys.

Holy Week, and the Roads Are So Empty That Going Fast is Easy

April 2, 2021

and sometimes what will happen is that when someone decides
they are finished with the undertaking of being in your life,
they will make this decision privately, with relief, not to hurt you,
though they do not consult you; this decision does not take you
quietly aside, and you will need to know that this
is not abandonment; abandonment is for silos standing
in flaxen fields, fake lighthouses in a row, and you will need
to know that this is all windswept and fine; if a personality
is the same as a soul then nothing has died, and there might
come a day when you will encounter each other again after years
through a chain of small usherings, revisions of the same volta,
and their name is a lap to run, but you want to say their name
anyway, and you won’t, and this is a decision you also make
without consulting them, and even this is alright; you come into
a clearing, and a pledge stands inert in the field of knowing

When I Knock My Front Teeth On the Mic, I Finally Understand

That God put me on this earth to scream.
Good and guttural. Hellion chip enamel off
atonally. The taste of beer and iron. Gold
is the absolute fury of every engineered
exhale. Clattering cymbal and quivering steel
tripwire woven through cedar menace whip
around on a whim like a twister. The devil
can’t come in today. He called in sick, I forged
his medical excuse. A cleansing is commencing.
Forego all Apollonian affectation and bless
this metal mess. And do you know what bliss
it is. To throttle like a body should. I’ve rallied
black lung to pull the primordial from all these
long years to make this night worth the good
people’s money. There ain’t no fucking pivot,
we are here for a good time, for the sheer
brawn of being alive. This is for the gutter punks
with all the damage, the single mothers,
the bushwhacking philosophers, the runaways
from a country called knowing everything.
Brute release. The sacred technique.

Rainbow Baby

Malabo ang mga linya sa sumulpot na bahaghari.
Hindi pa ganap na bughaw ang langit
nang dumating ang malamlam na arkong
halos ikubli ng ulap ng sanlaksang alinlangan.

Paano nga ba pagkakasyahin sa puso
ang samo’t saring damdamin na inihahayin 
ng magkakakontrang elemento sa langit?
Paano nga ba magpasalamat sa paglitaw ng liwanag
matapos lumpuhin ng marahas na unos?

Nanalangin ako ng liwanag sa gitna ng dilim
ngunit hindi agad maituring na liwanag
ang liwanag na dumating.

Bed Rest

Nakatakda na ang haba ng paglalakbay sa ilog 
na kailangan natin tawirin natin nang magkasama.
Pinag-aralan ko ang mga naitalang babala:
punô ito ng mga balakid at sopresang panganib.
Ganito naman ang disenyo ng paglalakbay:
sasakay tayo sa magkahiwalay na balsang
pinag-uugnay lamang ng manipis na lubid.
Magkadikit, ngunit hindi ganap. 
Magkalapit, ngunit hindi kita masisilayan
hanggang sa maabot natin ang pampang.

Ngunit may sapat nga bang paghahanda
kung kamatayan ang parating nakaamba?
Nasa kalagitnaan tayo nang umalog ang balsa ko
habang paluwag nang paluwag naman ang kapit mo.

Humiga ako sa gitna ng balsa’t 
ipinaubaya ang balanse sa marahang agos 
sabay iniusal ang palaging dalangin mula simula: 
sana sa pagmulat ng aking mga mata
ay kasama pa rin kita.

Ang aking buhay: kanlungan sa kulungan.

Ang tainga ko ay nakaniig sa labi ng radyo.
Nakikinig sa hindi nagtitipid
na bunganga ng mga komentaristang
naghahatid ng mga ulo ng balita
sa sangmagdamagang takbo ng panahon
sa riles ng mga kagila-gilalas
na pangyayari ng lungsod. Ngunit sa isang tao
ako lubos nahumaling
sa radyong ito na nagsasapelikula 
ng mga paslit na inip 
at mga kirot ng guniguni. 

Pinagmamasdan ang mga katawang lupa ko
noon pa
na bahagi ng pagbangon at iba pang
mga naibulsang pagkamangha at paglaho,
sa pag-ibig, buhay, pakikibaka,
landasin na walang hihigit, sasapat.

Nang minsan ay hindi ko naiwasang kiligin
at napaso ang dila
sa bagong saing na mais
dahil sa pagpapalitan ng matatamis na linya ng magkasintahan
tuwing ala una y media
sa sinusubaybayan kong drama
kasabay ang huntahan ng mga kundiman
mula sa wayang ng paligid.
Doon ay sinasayaw ako sa isipan 
ng magkayakap na asawang nadako sa Cotabato.

Araw-araw kong pinagsisisihan ang pagpili
ng unang pag-ibig,
kaysa pangarap na landasin.

Sinuka ko lahat.

Ito marahil ay tawag
ng sariling silindro ng anino
sa pagsusunog ng sariling balat sa balat 
ng kinahihindikang pag-ibig.
Akala ko ay ganoon ang pag-ibig: niyebe
ang magpapayakap ng dalawang
nilalamig na puso ayon sa k-drama. Mali.
Lamig ang gagawa ng siwang sa puso.

Pag-ibig na tulad ng sanaysay
na sinasalaysay ang mga danas sa pagsulat
habang nandiyan ang kalungkutang nakasubaybay,
kung paano mo isinisulat gamit ang kutsilyo
ang mga kalungkutan sa iyong balat,
tagos sa kaluluwa,
walang hihigit, sasapat.

Hindi ko tarok kung nakalaya ba ako sa sumpa
sa ganitong tinatawag na pagdahop
sa pag-iisang dibdib ko sa sundalo. Alam kong
nagsusunog siya ng bangkay. Ngunit baka kaisa rin niya ako
sa sumpa ng kaniyang mga paa na nagsisilid ng kamay
ng mga nakikibaka sa hungkag na kahon at nagbubusal
ng mga tambol ng paglaban.

Akala ko ang pag-ibig sa isang alagad 
ay paghapon ng sarili sa katahimikan
ganoon pala ang isang pagpapahirap ng sarili 
sa putok at himutok ng ‘di mahagilap na panlilinlang. 

Mali ang akala ko: may wakas ang pag-ibig. 
Hindi lang sa sarili. Walang hihigit, sasapat. 

Hanggang dito na lamang.
Maraming salamat sa pagbasa ng aking kwento.

Lubos na gumagalang,
Delia

Karne ng baboy 
Bigas, isda, at gulay 
De lata’t pagpag 

Tubig, kuryente
Makupad na internet
Kompyuter, CP

Serbisyo, presyong
Nakalululang balon
Ng konsumisyon

Ayudang barya 
‘Di sapat na pang-alo
sa napopoot 

Sikmura’t bibig
Na nag-aalburoto 
‘Di matahimik

Huwag lang matiklo’t
Masabihang nanlaban.
Napakamahal

Kabaong, libing,
At pagbawi sa labí 
Ng asawang pinaslang.

            When I landed on your soil, 
            I said to the people of the Philippines
            whence I came, I shall return.
            —Douglas MacArthur

Itong kapitbahayan

sa loob ng dalawampu’t taon wala na 
            ang bahay na ito. Binenta na naman ng
                        gobyerno sa mga oligarko. Mula

sa bintana, waring sumasayaw na kamay
            o apoy ang natitirang dahon sa mga payat
                        na sanga. Monokromo ang lahat, parang

tatlong taon lang ang nakaraan
            o tatlong taon sa hinaharap
                        kami, na narito, ay wala na.

*

May dalawang babae sa labas
            ng kampo, mga walang suot,
                        ang isa ay matandang naghihintay.

            Hinihintay bumalik
                        ang anak na sundalo.

Sa Kusina, Wakas

Bago pa man ako maghanda para sa eskwela, makikita ko si nanay sa dilim ng umaga,
nakatayo’t nakadungaw malapit sa bintana, nakadaster, nakapaa sa’ming munting kusina.
Naghuhugas siya ng mga nakatambak sa lababo, kagabi pa ang kutsara, tinidor at kutsilyo.
Nang minsang muntik nang makabasag ng baso’t plato tahimik lang siya sa paglakas ng tulo ng gripo.

*

Sa kusina naghugas ng mga ginamit sa lababo na dalawang linggo nang nakabinbin. Hindi anim na taon ang kinailangang bilangin upang sabihin na dinalaw ng gagamba ang platong metal na naiwan kasama ng pinatutuyong hugasan: plato, kutsara, tinidor, kutsilyo, kaldero ng kanin, kung saan may umusbong nang amag sa tutong. Sabi ng lalakeng inibig, ang solusyon daw ay asin.

Pagtatanod

Humahampas ang liwanag mula sa labas
sa mukha ng babae. Tumutulo ang tubig
            sa salamin.

Tinabihan niya ang asawang
taimtim ang pagtulog.
Hinipo ang balikat, sinuklay
ang buhok, isang halik sa noo
at labi, pinatay ang ilaw sa kwarto
            sa huling pagkakataon.

Lumangitngit ang palapag 
            sa bigat ng mga paa.

Tagana

Kinakarawat ta ini nga takna hin karibhong
nga may lahid hin paglaum
ngan pag-usisa ha mga milagro 
ngan maldisyon nga kaya buháton ngan buhatón
hiton aton mga tudlo.
An tawag ta hini burublig, pintakasi,
an tawag nira hini pag-alsa.
Mátuod ka yana, waray labi nga makaharadlok
kundi an panulay nga nagsusulsol
ha kolektibo nga agurok
ha burokratiko nga kagutom.

Mabalik an tarhug ngadi ha aton,
ngan kitá labi nga maggigihinatagay uyon ha katigayunan,
maggigisinarigay labaw kay kinahanglan.

Presisyon

Kitaa ini nga balá,
nahimugso ha henyo nga mga tudlo,
kalkulado, malinis, antes
hiag-an ha amon plebeyo nga dughan,
nagsusumbong hin abunda nga ihap hin mga lawas
nga nagbuhi hin kadanggaban
ha atubángan han hinawid ngan lipóng nga mga santos.

Pananglitan, may sumat la an nag-uusig nga ayam
mahitúngod ha urusahon nga mga sapatos.
Ginhuhukman kami hiton magsiok nga mga dalan
ngan mga taran-awon nga tinalikdan han am mga bintana.
May mga bahín an panimalay nga diri kilala
han kabataan. Tubtob nga hisabuhan kami
hadton pino an pamati: an pulbos ba adto
kun an panimaho nam?
Dinhi namon nasukol an distansiya han pulbura
kay masayon la maigô iton waray ngaran,
súgad ha ira.

Diri Katgutom

Hibubut-ukan ngani ak hini nga haros-sinimsiman,
haros-sagmáwon niya nga saru-salakot nga sustansiya
hin mga butod ngan lab-as nga unod ngan tul-an,
ugbos ngan sipil hin utanón nga yinam-iran,
sindo bumangil ha pamulong kinikilala han ngipon, kinakarawat
han dila. Kundi waray magdadalunót nga salamat
ha akon malangsa nga im-im ngan simod.
Di man la nagsusuol an ira tiyan ha pagkinita ha akon
maldesido nga diyeta. An ibá nga runós, nauyon
ha iya sangguwinaryo nga kaluoy. 

                                                      Andam ako
makasala, unta, ha pagbungkag han hura nga kusina.
Waray man ngani ak makigsasaro ha iya kopa.
Waray man ngani ak humampang ha iya lamesa.

~ Lithoredo abatanica

One of my favorite parts in Woman 
Warrior is when a bird leads the girl 
deep into the mountains, where an old 
couple who are really Jedi or Kung 
Fu masters train her to become

a great warrior. She fasts for days
and days then eats only ferns or moss
or shoots, drinks only dew or melted snow,
which sounds more extreme than keto. 
When her hunger is almost unbearable, 

she either hallucinates or a rabbit appears 
and jumps into the fire, sacrificing itself 
so she might eat every part of it, return 
to the world strengthened, and vanquish 
all her country's foes. I don't know 

how she does it: how she demolishes entire
armies and rescues women that have been kept 
in basements or dungeons, then returns to her
village, serene as can be, to take up again
the ordinary life of wife and daughter. 

When I was a thin and scabby-
kneed schoolgirl prone to nosebleeds 
and allergies, you could see clear 
across the roofs of neighboring houses 
to the parish church and adjacent 

elementary school and tell 
when students were dismissed for the day. 
Then my mothers would whip up an afternoon
snack: hotdog slices piled on a plate of fried
rice; on the side, a bottle of orange soda 

or Coke. They'd sit me down as soon as I 
came through the door; I ate and struggled 
to finish everything, not sparing the last
grain, as they stood sentinel on each side.
Heroic eating, scholars call it—that trope 

in novels where immigrant characters pick 
the flesh of fish and fowl close to the bone,
then boil these to get at the nourishing
marrow. Neck bones and gizzards, chicken
feet, yards of innards washed clean 

to make garlands packed with meat 
and onions and blood—Which is to say,
all the parts that others deem savage,
though abroad they might try haggis 
and a wee dram. This is not 

to be confused with Mukbang, those
YouTube cooking/eating broadcasts 
where in one sitting, the hosts push 
enough noodles and eggs and hot sauce 
into their mouths to feed a dozen men. 

Some of the most amazing are petite 
women like Yuka Kinoshita, who has more 
than five million followers and can pack
anywhere between five and twenty-five 
thousand calories into her wispy  

frame. Since I've become someone  
who saves all the leftovers in the fridge, 
I'm not sure how to think of this kind 
of extravagance. While I take pleasure
in food and flavor, I like to think

that eating could have some kind 
of quiet purpose beyond itself—
perhaps like rock-eating shipworms 
who tunnel with ease through limestone
as if it were a loaf of sourdough

or an apple: changing in time 
a river's course, leaving behind a hive 
of hollow cells, tiers of capsule hotel-
like spaces where snails and crabs 
and fish could take up residence.

Binurudbod ko sa kabatagan
An garapon nin abo.
Nagtatangis an langit mantang
Nakisumaro sa daga 
An dating nag-aataman digdi.

Dae lamang niya pighalat na magbunga
An puon na dikit mi nang marunot
Kaidtong primerang namidbidan
Nin latundan an saba. 

Hahalaton na lang mahimtong. 
Dae man kasing namit kan nakatuodan, 
Kakarakanon gabos. 

Dae ka na masusuhay sakuya liwat. 

Kabatagan (Sagingan)

salin ng may-akda

Ibinudbod ko sa sagingan
Ang garapon ng abo. 
Tumatangis ang langit habang
Naging kaisa ng lupa ang dating
Nag-aalaga dito. 

Di man lang niya hinintay na magbunga
Ang punong muntik na naming madurog
Noong unang nagkita
Ang latundan at ang saba.

Hihintayin ko na lang mahinog. 
Hindi man kasing sarap ng nakasanayan, 
Kakainin lahat. 

Hindi ka na maawawalay sa akin ulit. 

Kabatagan (Banana Grove)

translation by author

Into the banana grove I sprinkled
The urn of ashes.
Heaven wept 
As the earth became one
With he who once tended it.

He did not even wait for the fruit
Of the tree we almost crushed
When for the first time 
The latundan met the saba.

I shall wait for ripening, then. 
Even if it does not taste the same as that which I loved,
I shall consume.

Never again shall you be taken from me.

1.         Inaaral pa lang ng dila’t bibig 
            ang hugis ng “Mama” at “Papa”
2.         Pink na kapote 
            sa paanan ng retrato at altar
3.         Pangalang tinik sa lalamunan
4.         Di maburang krayola sa sahig
5.         Naghihintay ang santan
            ng mga daliring pipitas ng bulaklak
6.         Walang hanggang tagu-taguan
7.         Binurang pangalan sa class list
8.         Nagbabahay-bahayang mga magulang
9.         Tinuldukang parirala
10.       Nagkukulang ang mga kuwitis
            na maghahangad sa kalawakan
11.       Alipatong tinangay ng hangin 
12.       Maiiwang nag-iipon ng alikabok
            ang tinagong liham ng pag-amin
13.       Katitikim pa lang ng pakla ng beer
14.       Kapit-hinga sa unang halik
            at huling pagpikit
15.       Bagong sinagtala sa uniberso ng iilang saksi
16.       Kotilyong di na masasayaw 
17.       “Takbo.”
18.	 

your first loose milk tooth snapped      from wiry gumvein
            wet pearl tumbling into palm      as you stood in the garden

you’d pulled & pulled till tissue tendril untethered      & clumpy clots
            seeped      crimson ink blotting      your bottom lip

you thought this is what it’s like      to bleed      to pour out      to press
            detached incisor onto finger pads      grubby

you cradle-cupped the fang in jam hands      put it in a jar      rattled it
            ringing      to fluster the maya      chirping in the durian tree

but lolo snatched the thing      hid it under rafters for luck
            you shrieked      trilled indignant      but he just laughed

nights after      a dream of molars      falling from your mouth
            & you recalled the old warning:      when you dream

of rotting teeth      chew on old wood      or someone you love
            will pass away      but you told no one      sneered sour

at broom handles      used matches      lola’s cracked rosary
            its beads carved from an olive tree that once grew in Bethlehem

soon lolo took ill      his canines jutted      tips protruding like aswang
            ashen      & when he died      moths clustered over his casket

ghostly bouquet      this is what it’s like to kill      to cause to die
            to snuff a life quick      & you recalled the old saying:

when white moths gather      the dead flutter among them
            so you smudged candlewax      coaxed it into the shape of wings

thorax      abdomen      took storm-fallen branches      bit hard
            till splinters barbed your tongue      you tried to undream

float your milk tooth from the roof      to nestle it safe
            in your mouth      & snatch it      snatch it all back

Inabutan ko ang libing ng anito. 
Nakasakay siya sa bangka, 
at pinanonood ng mga batang nakabisikleta.
Abuhing salamin ang tubig, 
nalalasahan ito samantalang 
malamlam na bughaw ang langit. 
Palayo nang palayo ang sinaunang diyos.
Palakas nang palakas ang mga ugong, 
dasal sa wikang nagwaglit, matanda.
Maya’t mayang sinasaniban ng ungol
ng nagdaraang jeep: love radio, love radio.

Grade 1

One day, the girl who had hair pointing outwards
like horns growing out from behind her neck
looked at me with eyes blank with youth
and said she was proud of me. Sip orange juice.
 
It was during break time 
when she tells the class, huddling around us, that I 
was no longer a gay boy. That sure, I was one yesterday, 
but today she sees none of that softness

weighing down my shoulders, tingling her curiosity.
Nothing bent or fragrant standing out.
Today, she declared me void and for that, 
I’m worth a round of applause. Crumple juice box.

Later in class, we stand to recite to the letter P. 
I stand, get nipped at the ankle by classmates 
not to say P as in Pamaypay, as in Pink, as in Prim, 
but to say P as in Pako, as in Pain, as in Power.

Replica

The attention those gauntlets would catch
out in the streets. Shine full silver,
their outlines solar, framing
power muscular yet refined.
Imagine unboxing the delivery
through a flurry of excitement, 
donning the headband – sorry, tiara,
and seeing it as reconciliation
 
between the young man 
who wants to grow into full man 
by looking past tremors of his own hate,
studying the dullness in violence,
understanding that mercy is a constant task
and that the truth isn’t always as golden
as a one-word definition,
 
mixed with the plucky eight-year-old boy
wearing a mask from Toy Kingdom, 
a makeshift lasso made out of
shoestrings, ribbons and shorts strings 
latched at the garters of his basketball shorts,
who will only spin to transform
to fetch a remote or pour water into pitchers
at the right call for help: Wonder Woman!

Lemon juice

and here we might be having 
a love that knows about time
that doesn’t burrow in the chest
coming through smooth 
like the first inhale of a cool breeze
upon opening a door 
the kind of love that knows 
its place and circumstance
within the choice you must make 
between the bad event and 
the typical happy ending
because sticky situations 
do not transmute into good 
by themselves
you have to choose to wake up 
and contribute to the healing
until you bear a gift to reap 
which right now 
is the rest of central London 
all to ourselves

the city not noticing the swift landing 
of an arm around a shoulder

the back and forth of flirtation 
nimble on its feet