Boy

Poetry by | August 31, 2008

(After Girl by Jamaica Kincaid)

Never wash your clothes. Let your older sister do it. You can only help fetching water from that well. Cook the food you like; not the food you want your boy friends to like. It’s good to walk barefoot and shirtless under the sun; the heat makes you tan. Never shave your pubic hair; shave only the beard and the mustache. Don’t pluck your eyebrows. You’re not joining a pageant. Never go to the market unless you look for a new pair of rubber shoes. But don’t look for Hello Kitty bags; you are no longer a kid. But I don’t like Hello Kitty. Never bring a basket unless you accompany your mother. Never let your younger sister ask you to do the dishes; scold her. You are older. Never sing Celine Dion’s songs before your friends. Don’t pout your lips. Pucker it if you are silent. Continue reading Boy

Hairdo 101

Fiction by | August 31, 2008

“Mom,” I say. “Could I cut my hair short? Like Sharon Cuneta’s shoulder length hair. Or maybe Maricel Soriano’s bob. Then I could make a quiff out of it, Mom. Quiff’s a hairstyle where the hair at the front is brushed backward and forward. And I want to try Papa’s hair gel. Please, Mom.

Or, why don’t I get a mohawk? It looks real cool. Pretty cooler than a bob. Please Mom? Do you know how mohawks are done? The head is shaved off on the sides then my remaining hair would stick out in the center. See that image, Mom? Isn’t it cool? Please? Then maybe I could dye my hair orange, or red, or pink. Yes. Pink. Like the artist Pink. I like Pink. Mom?

Or, what about an army cut? I would like that, Mom. Like Demi Moore. Remember? We watched that movie together. She looked so hip. I want that, Mom. Please?”

“Dear,” she says. “Don’t you know that your bangs emphasize your deep set brown eyes? You’re prettier with your hair long. And, surely, suitors will be coming one of these days when you keep it that way.

Now, comb your hair. I just bought you a head band.

Like Nora Aunor’s.”

T'nalak

Fiction by | August 24, 2008

Excerpt from a novella

He wished she were wearing the white gown he had brought. How lucky he was, in fact, that Lumela’s family did not ask for a dowry for her. Lumela had asked them not to demand a set of gongs or horses as bridal gifts from Andrew. It was enough for her parents that Andrew agreed that the wedding be done in the traditional T’boli way before their church wedding.

The women were waiting outside the house of Lumela. She was in the house’s central space, covered with a red hand-woven blanket. There were no voices from the women, except the beating of agong.

Continue reading T'nalak

Kay gimingaw ang bungol

Poetry by | August 24, 2008

kay ang gimingaw bungol
sa mga panghasi sa kawatan
inig abot sa kagab-ihon
para lungkabon ang kaldero
nga dukot ray nahibilin.
 
ang kawatan ibusdak-bagting-bu-ak
ang kaldero (nangliki ang salog).

pero ang gimingaw dili makamata
 
kay siya bungol–
nabungol sa iyang kaugalingong paghagok
hagok hagok hagok hagok
hagok
                   hagok hagok

hagok           hagok         hagok
hagok sa damgo,                                    hagok
 
 

ngadto sa pikas kalibutan.

Orasyon ng Pinabayaan

Poetry by | August 24, 2008

tanging ang kulisap lamang
ang nasisiyahan sa liwanag
na nagmumula sa lampara.
Habang ang bawat galaw
ng guhit ng relo
ay malakas na naririnig,
ang dilim naman ay nagbabanta
ng matinding kalungkutan.

Saglit kinuha ang isang kahon,
nangangapa man sa dilim
ay huling-huli pa rin.
Buti rin, tahimik na ang lampara,
wala na rin ang kanina’y
naglalarong insekto.
Binudbod ang puting bagay
mula sa supot
at sinimulan ang nakagawiang orasyon.

Lalong tumahimik ang silid,
iginala ang mga tirik na mata
tumigil na ang galaw ng orasan
namatay na rin ang liwanag
lumutang ang katawan
pataas nang pataas…

Saglit pa’y may napansing
mukhang nakaguhit sa may dingding,
nakahihilakbot ang hitsurang tumambad
na minsan sa panaginip ay hindi mawari,
ang bawat patak ng dugong umaagos mula
sa sugat ng kanyang mukha
ay nakatatakot.

Natagpuan ko ang aking
sariling umiiyak sa awa, sa takot, sa galit
Ikaw nga, Hesus!
ang simula, ang hangganan, ang katapusan
ilan pang tulad ko ang magiging ganito?
”Diyos ko, bakit mo ako pinabayaan?”

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.

Continue reading His Ear

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!

Continue reading Father's Boots

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.