flash of flesh

something in your hair stings like rust.
the soot black night? or the scent yet unnamed? or,
is it the tickle of the naughty silky strands?

i don’t know. but on that rain-soaked night – armskin
against armskin, the flash of flesh – under your umbrella,
something in your hair stung me. and now:

i crave the gasp of hunger in your mouth
i crave the surge of longing in your breast
i crave the wave of assault in your hip

i crave the grip of death in your thighs.

a, my dear stranger: like your umbrella,
unfold me. bathe my creaking ribs
with the serenity of your inviolate oil.

garapata and latik

The man gobbled up a plate of latik-laden kalamay
While his dog nibbled on its paw a bunch of garapata –
Those blood-suckers that kept on thriving
Despite the tons and tons of anti-flea powder
and lotion he had poured on the dog’s fur.

The man and his dog, together they bit,
they chewed with a clack and a click
from their bleeding teeth. When the man sneered
and its gums the dog bared, a passing geek
as if bewitched, couldn’t tell which was the beast.

The man raked the floor with his tongue
for the crumbs of latik that fell from his mouth;
the dog scoured its back for another bunch
of grape-colored bugs. And they bit and chewed
with the clack and the click of garapata and latik.

buried bones

The waves bring back buried bones to life. From beneath the crampled carcass of the lake seethe the songs of the dead. Bones once quiet now lay scattered, tossed away from each other by the current,
by the fish.

A skeleton wails for a lost pair of ribs, which are not devoured by the silt but trapped in another’s coffin. There lying with bones much whiter, still glued to the laughter of the living. The pair of ribs still awaits, certain that completion will come: they feel the tickling of the waves’ tongue in the navel of the hill where they nestle.

our words

the rivers freeze
under our chilly gaze

the leaves rustle
at the slightest quiver
of our scorching tongues

and our words break the earth
into million gaping wounds

zigzagging
in a dizzying speed
to devour us

i stopped and stood still

one morning, manong ang i
went to our swidden farm
to pick mushrooms.

“arm yourself with a stick,”
he commanded while demonstrating
how to whip right and left
when walking along grassy trails
to scare off snakes.

“but if by chance we encounter one
just hold your ground, and your guts
will send the snake flying in fright.”

when we reached the first bunch
of bushy bamboos, we saw a tudtud –

a worm-like snake, wiggling
its way around fallen leaves
and tiny blades of grass.

holding my breath,
i stood still at once.

when i looked at manong
he was just as small as a mushroom –

scampering amid the clouds of dust
his bare feet spewed out.

death

a trail of worm’s teeth

etched upon the rose petal –

everything departs.

rain

soft trickles of rain

kissing the arid rice field –

green smile of grain.

biting tang of truth

the sugary words

with which we sting
each other like wasps

harden into knives
slashing our hearts

which we vow to shield
and be tender with

and soon we sniff
the biting tang

of truth: anything
stung stings back.

a village named dream

there is a village
in the philippines
named Dream: 	   

a home where
wild lilies bloom
        free	

 where 	no bullets
	dare defile the spider’s
    	  solitude
	and communion
    with the grass

where girls can swim
in the river     pick up snails
and come  back home
      unafraid        unscathed

come with me
let us go
to Dream.

calumet can

what ant on earth showed you the way
to the treasure i buried
beneath our bamboo stair?

not a faintest sound did escape when,
one by one, as fast as father’s whip,
i slipped my coins into the calumet can.

did the sweat of my palm betrayed itself?

day, i was a hen: scratching the earth,
pecking every grain
left to die in the scorching rice field.

night, i was a knight: dreaming of new armor
for a coming fight. yes, i would be wearing
a pair of new khaki shorts and white t-shirt, come june.

but that horrible morning, i found the jaw
of the indian warrior in my calumet can deformed.

the world swirled and i dashed off to the plaza;
there you stood, pretending not to notice me,
hands digging deep into your pockets.

as i stared at the dicer’s fingers raking in
my precious coins, i prayed hard to god:
may the earth swallow you alive, manong!