Buhi pa ang tanom by the windowsill.
            But barely. Galantaw ko sa gawas:
widows carry their rosaries
            and the bodies of their boys. Hinay

ang dagan sa karwahe. Daginuton
            ang mata’g segundo ug minuto
before the music comes to mute
            ug gihinlo na ang muta sa mata.

Umog na ang panyo, bearing what
            is left of memory. Guwapo kaayo ka
unta, but beauty is ever so briefly
            the way gilamon sa bakunawa

ang adlaw ug giluwa ra pud niya.
            Dili ko mabusog niining
kinabuhi. How cruel is the joke: to die.
            But not really. Instead, panuhot:

Gikabuhi ko simply by
            living too much. Dalo ko
ug gihatag unta nako ning sobra
            to the boy in the box. Bata kaayo ka,

Dong, apan you dug the soil too deep
            and dinner is now spoiled. Empty
ang bangkete. Sayang ang salin,
            gatapok sa ganghaan. Diha, I hope

you are well-fed ug mubus-uk
            imong aping. Loss is the cicadas
chirping at night and the familiar
            sound of your wonder

is absent. I wander around your bed
            and smell the absence. Ping-ot ra ni
sa ilong, mayta, ug bangungot ra ni
            nga makamata pa ko. But I wake

to your wake. I wake to mine.
            I watch the candles slowly waltz
its expiration. Hinay-hinay og tubo,
            Dong, I am losing grip of the root

word for son. Is it sun or a sonata?
            Nilupad naka uban sa mga mariposa.
Ayaw sah. Lapad ang imong hiyom
            the way the pink horizon will greet you.

sal (n. Spanish) salt

I.

Here, sa cusina, the sal confesses its sins:
                        Pasayloa ko. They say, a centavo inside
            One’s bulsa has become more of a cliché,

Buslot ang bulsa, but asa ang cuarta
                        But blind, deep in the fishing grounds
            Crowned with coral thorns, and sa gawas,

Ang coral sa among silingan, slinging to
                        Our dinner table an entire bandejado of
            Dirt and coal, apan kuwang ni, the belly

Moans, kuwang ni kay we need more rice,
                        And ang kaha nahupsan na og tubig,
            Pasayloa ko, says the sal, because what

Is left at the very bottom is a bed of
                        Knives, dismembered into heaps of silver,
            Naa ma’y valor, tuod man, apan there is

No bread, there are only heads of men
                        Holding their postures upright like
            A round of fruits for a rotting New Year.

II.

“Bag-ong kinabuhi” is no fortune cookie
                        Ug nibaga na lang ang balloon sa
            Akong baga, and it did not burst,

It collapsed like broken windows, sharded
                        Sa ka-ma’yng laki of men. Kay wa
            Ma’y pan lagi. There is a need for bread,

Because even in the land of the dead,
                        Tuslobun gihapon sa patay ang lapok
            Og pan, dilaon gihapon nila sa bung-

Bong ang nagpabiling paglaum, pahiyom
                        Na lang, at least, there are edible bodies
            Sitting on the table, dancing naked like

Children wanting to play with the monsoon.
                        Kay ang ulan, sulti sa akong Lola, are
            Pods of shrunken angels coming to bathe

The chapped tongues of break back soil.
                        ‘Saon man na ang pan kon wa’y
            Tubig, she would say. Ma-uga ang tutunlan.

III.

And there would be no land to till.
                        Relentless, gahi’g ulo akong Lola—
            Gipuno niya ang planggana until

The plenty softens into a mirror
                        Of ruptured dreams, apan gikan na
            Sa singot, ana siya. No water ripples

Without fingers falling down as
                        Sweat. Learn from the Angels, she
            Said. They are not there by Grace,

But the firmness of wings and
                        The stubbornness of ringlets. Pag-ingon
            Ana if you want the ripple to echo

Your name on galvanized sin,
                        Pasayloa ko, says the sal. But when dry,
            Raindrops scooped by the planggana

Are fallen angels heaped as a column
                        Of sin, because they turned away sa
            Ilang Amahan, to be seasoned sa atong

Inun-unan, to live among the ordinariness
                        Of men, their ordinary troubles, and
            Naordinahan na lang ang Obispo,

Apan ordinario lang gihapon
                        Ang dugo sa copa, the vino lamented.
            Hain na man tawn ang Manluluwas?

IV.

The bread had asked, but roses had
                        Wilted after a thousand year wait
            And ang laya had hardened into stone,

Hardened into bone ug giumom sa iro
                        Ang handumanan sa iyang dila, kay
            Dugay na wa sa ere ang kagumkom

Na chismis sa atong silingan. Niagi
                        Ang kahilom, but then came the birds,
            Wasting their talents by the window

Sill. Silian ni silang mga yawa, Lola
                        Yelled, Kuwang-kuwang na gani
            Diri, muhangop pa gyud sa dyutayng

Pagkaon sa atong atubangan,
                        But every day is always an act of
            Facing. The farce begins with

The focusing of the meal until each dish
                        Shivers and ghosts into an evaporating,
            And what we have left is a mirage on

The table, a coping mechanism, a migraine
                        Kay di lalim sa tiyan mudug-ab og hangin,
            Especially if all we have sa cusina for a meal

Is air. Ug paglaum. Kon isuka pa ni,
                        We are empty again. ‘Saon na lang ni,
            Kining stubbornness will to breathe,

To be. Tubig. Tabang, tubig, kay giuhaw
                        Ako. Pasayloa ko, says the sal sa iyang
            Cumpisal. Mao kini, ang akong suliran.