muddle-mindedness

I held onto your hand as the car rolled slow between two islands parted by a gulf and sea. We journeyed through dawn’s first glow— calm, bluest waters below, monsoon-free. 

You whispered me to sleep; more roads lay ahead in dust and daylight; coconut trees swayed beneath the midday sweep; then a sudden rain revealed twin rainbows in plain sight.

You wanted to be loved, unyielding like this stretch of concrete and steel— a dictator’s offering to his beloved,  but for rebels, a twice-endured ordeal.

Such is the luxury of this man

who always dines al fresco.

He tucks a handkerchief

on the collar of his dress shirt.

Then he folds his sleeves,

revealing more of his arms

moistened with sweat and grease.

On his lap, he places a packed lunch:

choice pieces of Chickenjoy,

some Jolly Spaghetti,

and a quarter of regular Yum.

He doesn’t mind the odd smell,

the flies that swarm

and feast on his meal,

or the children who

keep calling him names.

He brushes them away

like the dirt peppered on

the chicken bones he gnaws.

He slurps a mouthful of the noodles,

staining the sides of his mouth

with sweet spaghetti sauce.

He dabs it off at first.

Then he wipes his mouth again

and again, trying to rub off

For a friend with a tattoo of the ill-fated lovers

I would’ve gone to your wedding

and waited with you

under the mulberry tree.

I would’ve held your hand

and gave you a reassuring smile

because your lover was running late.

I would’ve snatched your veil

before it was caught by an uninvited guest.

That night, I would’ve told you to stay.

I mistook your act to be rash;

your senses dulled by too much pillow talk

through that crack on the wall.

You were mad

yet grateful for the barrier

that kept you and your lover

together and apart;

you and your secrets, untouched.

But just as Ovid had said,

“fortune and love favor the brave.”

So, you chose to run away.

And even if you were warned

of what awaits you in the morning

you’d still do the same

for you knew of tragedies

far greater than death.

No, you didn’t cower

from danger or an ill fate;

what you feared most

was being exposed.

You fled not to be with your lover

For Lola Cely

Your life story always begins with smoke 

rising from the lighted end of your Alhambra cigar; 

from the burning stalks of palay 

cut fresh from the fields; 

from the wafting steam of garlic fried rice, 

a cup of coffee from which Itoy dips his pandesal.

 You call Nita for breakfast 

but she is still sound asleep

after crying all night over the pain in her stomach. 

Remember to hand Itoy some money 

for his bottle of carabao’s milk, 

coconuts for bico with latik, and oil for Nita 

and the Sto. Niño by the doorway, 

where Lito, your husband, stands 

like a guerilla soldier ready for battle.

All will be well, you say. 

Today will be just fine.  

 After today, you will refuse to make bico. 

The oil will not be enough to make latik, 

to make Nita well and fall asleep. 

She will be pregnant and will have an abortion. 

She will cry all night, her belly will hurt.

Lito will die in his bed, dreaming of wars 

and finding Itoy one morning on the floor, 

his mouth foaming, a bottle of muriatic acid in his hand.

 Now you know only of Nita sound asleep in her bed,

Lito on his way to the fields, 

Itoy walking to the store for his bottle of carabao’s milk 

and coconuts for your bico’s latik. 

All will be well, you say, lighting your cigar.