Himig
(September 27, 2015)
While moving boxes and tables and chairs, I thank the
room for being small and the cage being equally small to
contain you. We live in diminutive boxes, you and I. And now that you are
lost, the limited space relieves me. While I pull
out the disjointed twigs of the Christmas tree I
lumped in dark garbage bags, I thank that you loathe
perky things and would never hide where you can get
pricked. While I rummage through the cushions and the
blankets, which you love because they’re so soft, I thank
my envious self, the clingy one who wanted someone to take home even though
living together was against your nature. And while I
step on one of your fresh green excrements or crumple the manuscripts you
stamped with your pee, I thank that dreadful cat food for being the one you
favoured. While I search for you for an hour, with no you, no pincushion, in sight, I
thank my impulsive self for wanting you without any sense of
responsibility. We are cursed, you and
I. You are meant to run away while I am destined to
look and never catch you. And when I have given up on
finding you in this mess we both created, and when I choose to
sleep instead, you sneak up to brush your
thorns along my leg, and I, perpetually half-amused,
half-scared, and now fully aware, would shy away. But when you are
found and crawling around my neck to entangle your nails along my hair, in my
sleepiness, I thank this reckless little self who have
grown accustomed to the small comfort of your
soft and prickly embrace.
The persons I love best
(September 26, 2015)
The persons I love best are the ones who wait.
The farmer who overlooks a field of rice on a rainy day
praying the monsoon leaves the husks standing after the onslaught.
The hiker atop Pulag covered in jackets at dusk,
whisking mosquitoes and leeches away.
The potter who is awake at 2 in the morning to manage a
kiln engulfed in smokes and fumes.
A mother outside the school to pick a son—the yaya
left on extended vacation and will not come back soon.
The father teaching a daughter to change a tire because
it is hard to be dependent on others while on the road, he says.
A 7-year-old watching the clouds adrift
making up castles and rabbits and monsters in her head.
The persons I love best are the ones who
waste and not waste time.
Who tipple along moments to linger in silent agony. Those who
see the natural cadence of the universe
unfolding, passing. Until the destined time comes
and they are rewarded with a field of gold
or the heat of the morning, or a vase immortalized by fire.
The ones who receive a kiss, a story,
a hello, and a smile.
Untitled
(September 26, 2015)
The basket is filled to the brim with
pink makopas from the Wednesday market. My cousins and I
dig through the pile in hurried competition, we forget
once our teeth crunch through the supple smooth skin. Lele
pretends to be Pacman and the fruit, the jellyfish. I refute it with
something absurd: A wide-brimmed bright nose
swollen from summer dust. I bite the tip first before
devouring the bridge. Tasteless white flesh,
bitter after-taste. The sap clinching through the
partitions of my teeth. Until my tongue reaches a
web of white threads surrounding an ageing seed. We
throw those away to decay by the garden, like the
weaves of Lola’s basket, dwindling through many
Aprils. Unused, empty.
- 9/27/2015
(September 27, 2015)
While moving boxes and tables and chairs, I thank the
room for being small and the cage being equally small to
contain you. We live in diminutive boxes, you and I. And now that you are
lost, the limited space relieves me. While I pull
out the disjointed twigs of the Christmas tree I
lumped in dark garbage bags, I thank that you loathe
perky things and would never hide where you can get
pricked. While I rummage through the cushions and the
blankets, which you love because they’re so soft, I thank
my envious self, the clingy one who wanted someone to take home even though
living together was against your nature. And while I
step on one of your fresh green excrements or crumple the manuscripts you
stamped with your pee, I thank that dreadful cat food for being the one you
favoured. While I search for you for an hour, with no you, no pincushion, in sight, I
thank my impulsive self for wanting you without any sense of
responsibility. We are cursed, you and
I. You are meant to run away while I am destined to
look and never catch you. And when I have given up on
finding you in this mess we both created, and when I choose to
sleep instead, you sneak up to brush your
thorns along my leg, and I, perpetually half-amused,
half-scared, and now fully aware, would shy away. But when you are
found and crawling around my neck to entangle your nails along my hair, in my
sleepiness, I thank this reckless little self who have
grown accustomed to the small comfort of your
soft and prickly embrace.
The persons I love best
(September 26, 2015)
The persons I love best are the ones who wait.
The farmer who overlooks a field of rice on a rainy day
praying the monsoon leaves the husks standing after the onslaught.
The hiker atop Pulag covered in jackets at dusk,
whisking mosquitoes and leeches away.
The potter who is awake at 2 in the morning to manage a
kiln engulfed in smokes and fumes.
A mother outside the school to pick a son—the yaya
left on extended vacation and will not come back soon.
The father teaching a daughter to change a tire because
it is hard to be dependent on others while on the road, he says.
A 7-year-old watching the clouds adrift
making up castles and rabbits and monsters in her head.
The persons I love best are the ones who
waste and not waste time.
Who tipple along moments to linger in silent agony. Those who
see the natural cadence of the universe
unfolding, passing. Until the destined time comes
and they are rewarded with a field of gold
or the heat of the morning, or a vase immortalized by fire.
The ones who receive a kiss, a story,
a hello, and a smile.
Untitled
(September 26, 2015)
The basket is filled to the brim with
pink makopas from the Wednesday market. My cousins and I
dig through the pile in hurried competition, we forget
once our teeth crunch through the supple smooth skin. Lele
pretends to be Pacman and the fruit, the jellyfish. I refute it with
something absurd: A wide-brimmed bright nose
swollen from summer dust. I bite the tip first before
devouring the bridge. Tasteless white flesh,
bitter after-taste. The sap clinching through the
partitions of my teeth. Until my tongue reaches a
web of white threads surrounding an ageing seed. We
throw those away to decay by the garden, like the
weaves of Lola’s basket, dwindling through many
Aprils. Unused, empty.
- 9/27/2015
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