His Ear

Fiction by | August 17, 2008

Because his left ear was shaped like that of an enormous punch bowl, my brother could always hear what I said. For instance, he would hit me on the head if I let out a giggle when a good-looking guy passed me by after taking Communion. Only then would I glance down at my cupped palms like a proper girl while my brother gave the cute guy a dirty look.

Contrary to how his classmates had teased him in third grade, he was not delivered breech nor did my father, who was a policeman, pinch his ear frequently. My brother had a big left ear, that’s all. And this ear, would cup every sound like radar. It had no static, it never had a dead air. It was like a portable spy microphone and it always heard what I said.

And only what I said.

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Father's Boots

Fiction by | August 17, 2008

The shoes at the bottom of the stairs are my father’s magical boots. They are black and huge and made of leather. They have shoelaces that go all the way up to a few inches below his knee. Father’s boots belong at the bottom of the stairs and no one was allowed to touch them, move them or place anything beside them. He didn’t mind, though, when Mother placed her pink slippers beside them. Sometimes they sparkled, other times they looked gray. But we were never to touch father’s boots.

Father’s boots were special. Once, I heard Father from the room telling Mother: “Wife, I need my boots so we’ll have money to feed the children and send them to school.” Mother went out the room and told Father that the boots were under the stairs. When he came home we had bread and chicken for dinner, and pencils and notebooks for school. The boots had brought him money indeed!

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On the Shoreline

Poetry by | August 17, 2008

You may
not
see
the raft,
buoying
in the ocean,
but you
can feel
the waters,
rippling
on the edges
of your feet.

If your hands
suffer from
the coldness
of the breeze,
just cup
these waters
and it will
carry you
to a white distance,
where I am
lost,
sailing
against the wind
of my departure.

She used to live in a shanty

Poetry by | August 17, 2008

She used to live in a shanty
with nipa roof
and bamboo walls,
and soil for a floor.
She used to look so shabby
in hand-sewn clothes
and an old pair of shoes,
which, all, her mother once wore.
She used to be poorer than the rats
she would run after
and smash with a broom.
But everything has changed
since she met Mr. Jones.
Now life for her (and the neighborhood)
suddenly became easy
as Mr. Jones—it seems—
is a man so generous and wealthy.
No trace of a poor lady can be seen
as she walks around the town
with a tall, white man.
The smile on her face beams with pride
as her head she holds high.
But never had she heard of the stories
passed on from mouth to mouth,
of what she might have done
to bring home a gold mine.

His Phantom Pains

Fiction by | August 10, 2008

It was already dusk when he arrived at the gate.

His eyes were immediately riveted to some children playing under the huge Christmas tree. A mango tree that was decorated with Christmas lights stood close to it.

He took out an old cellular phone inside his pocket. No messages. He squared his shoulders and heaved a great sigh. He looked at his own hands, which were already weary from pushing his own wheelchair. He tightened his grip on the wheels even more and turned them slowly forward. No one noticed his arrival when he painstakingly tried to squeeze himself through the main door.

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Nganong Daghan May Gugma Sa Ulan?

Poetry by | August 10, 2008

Ang kabugnaw sa hangin
Mao mutunaw sa kamatyanong kainit
Ang ga-asong kape, ang akong habol
Ug ang paghandum kanimo
Mao ray nagpainit
niining gabhiona,

Ug sama sa mga patak sa ulan
Na daaw dagom nga nitusok-lalom
Sa kaugatan, imong gitusok
ang dughan ko sa imong
hait ug init na gugma.

Workshop

Poetry by | August 10, 2008

I sit at the center,
the red metal stool
bearing my weight.
the girl in blue stares
at me with tiger eyes.
I face the other way, dragging
the stool as
it screeches—
my thoughts exactly.
The man in eyeglasses
shouts, “what’s the central image?”
the girl in blue nods,
not once
but twice
as the man hammers
my poems
on the table.
I face them,
carrying
my own weight as
he hurls the sheets
up in the air.
Our eyes witness
my syllables
fall
like the loosened
leaves
of a tree.

Dark Pink Harvest

Poetry by | August 10, 2008

Peering through a picture window
I saw pastel-hued balloons dance in the air,
anchored to chairs built so low
uprooted children are ill-fitted there.
I gaze at you and me standing –
opposite ends of a rainbow:
I am writing history.
You are certain
in this country
there is a treasure of stories to know.
You finally understood why you had to go.
Seeping sambong in a screened porch
embraced by life-filling green
Alone I stare upon your raiment of dark pink torch
more lovely than I can ever imagine.