Biko

Poetry by | October 11, 2009

your underarms
are bare and wet
as your old ladle
patiently danced
inside the giant kawa
the other strap
slipped
from your shoulders
your skin
cracked
dry like the desert
your armpits
tired and wet
maybe you still smelled
like last Saturday night
when he came home
his body swaying
to his own raging music
burying his face
in your armpits
his breath
like sliced ginger
his hand
a spear
around your face
forgetting you were once
the queen
of his kingdom
your ladle danced again
your armpits wet
your biko
wasted –
a sweet decay

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Red Wine for Teddy

Play by | October 4, 2009

Characters:

Teodor/Teddy – middle-aged guy, meat vendor and butcher
Ardong – meat butcher and delivery man
Lydia – meat vendor and mother of Ji-ji
Ji-ji – daughter of Lydia, twenty-two years old

In a market. Two meat stalls face each other on stage. A space in between serves as the pathway. One yellow light bulb hangs in each stall. Lydia and Jiji’s stall is on the left side. On their table: a weighing machine on the right side, chopping board at center, meat slabs. Jiji stands behind the table slicing meat. On her left side, Lydia spinkles water on the sliced meat slabs. Ardong stands in front of their stall putting meat slabs on the table from his big plastic container. Teddy’s table is on the right side. His table is bare except for the wooden chopping board and the butcher knife.

It is four-thirty in the morning.

Teodor ties the apron around his neck. Afterwards, he ties a towel around his head. He pours water on the surface of his table and wipes it with a clean rug. His voice has a clear accent of Bisaya, always mispronouncing the words.

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Villanelle For A Bumpy Ride

Poetry by | October 4, 2009

All my mothers will hum your lullaby
Hold tight as we ride the habal-habal.
And they will all forgive when you first cry.
Quietness falling, not failing the skies
Hold tight as we bump along the rough road.
All my mothers will hum your lullaby.
I will not pass the Abortion Road and die,
Daddy will drive us home before midnight
And they will all forgive when you first cry.
Stars blink and sing, and so do I
Listening to your heartbeat with my heartbeat
All my mothers will hum your lullaby.
I pray and am blessed; these tears will dry
You’ll breathe in all the poems that I will write,
They will all forgive when you first cry.
Grip tighter, for darkness will say goodbye,
Just sleep inside, my sweetest mistake
All my mothers will hum your lullaby,
And they will all forgive when you first cry.

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The King of Cabantian

Fiction by | September 27, 2009

He was acting strange around the house lately, my father. Often I would find him peering through the jalousies. As though in participation (or probably in some unfathomable sympathy) the whole world would fall quiet—the occasional barking of the neighbors’ dogs, the sound of children playing, and the gurgling noise of tricycles, all would suddenly wane.

Bare-chested and potbellied, he would pace around the house, anxious, then later, he would sit in front of the TV, switching channels as swiftly as the tube could accommodate. Mamang would sit beside him at night and complain of getting dizzy from the bright flashes of channels being changed now and then. At daytime, as Mamang left for work, he’d usually settle on a basketball game. Though jobless since the day I learned fathers ought to have a job no matter what, he wasn’t like this. He used to go around the village without a shirt on, meddling on other people’s lives, influencing other husbands to emulate him.

“It’s my job,” he had boasted at dinner when asked by Mamang, “I am the king of Cabantian, and I have to constantly oversee the status of my kingdom,” to which Mamang just rolled her eyes and sighed.

So much for being the invincible king, I thought after noticing his unusual behavior for the past two days.

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The Golf Ball

Poetry by | September 27, 2009

The ball soared
the sky like a dove
after the golfer struck
its body with the club

The ball soared
the sky like a dove

But not a dove
of peace

For it landed
on the rusty-roof
of a squalid shanty
in a nearby slum

Creating a loud bang
disturbing the kid
who was sleeping
to his mother’s hum

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The Cure

Fiction by | September 20, 2009

All her life, Caridee had been brought up inside the huge walls of their garden. Her father never took care of her; he hired nurses and servants to look after Caridee and yet he never let these servants have conversations with his child. He never allowed Caridee to play beyond the walls of their garden; in fact, she never had the chance to see what kind of life existed beyond that wall. He never showed love and care for his only child. He spent all his time in the basement, immersed in woodcraft.

Caridee’s father said that her mother died in childbirth. The flowers inside the garden were the only friends that Caridee had. She felt alone inside the walls of their garden.

One sunny afternoon, Caridee was in the garden playing alone when suddenly, she heard a crash near the fountain. It was an angel. Its grey wings radiated feathers with tiny crystals on their edges; the crystals seem to be the reason why the angel seems to glow, despite the lack of majesty in the color of its wings. Filled with wonder, Caridee approached the angel.

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Mga Kendi at Turon

Fiction by | September 20, 2009

“Limang piso?” tanong ni Bien sabay kamot ng ulo.

Nginitian sya ng kanyang ina at hinalikan. “Mag aral ka nang mabuti. Dapat hindi ka mahuhuli sa eskwela anak, ha?” malambing na paalala nito.

Alam nyang kahit ilang beses syang magtanong ay hindi na madadagdagan ang kanyang baon para sa araw na iyon kaya naman ay ibinulsa na nya ito, tumalikod, at lumakad patungo sa eskwela.

Kahit kailan ay hindi pa nahuhuli si Bien sa klase. Hindi man sya ang pinakamatalino sa klase niya, ngunit ang “record” niyang “never been late” ang pinanghahawakan nya simula nung grade 1. Grade 3 na siya ngayon at malinis pa rin ang “record” niya kahit naglalakad lang siya patungong paaralan. Natatalo pa niya ang mga kaklaseng may sariling sasakyan.

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