Poetry

The Underside of Healing

King Llanza June 24, 2019

My love, I was at our backyard this morning.
The rain was delivered fresh,
sealed with silver lining and sunlight
blessing us more than usual.

Snails crawled on manicured grass and tall wooden
fences. I was sitting by the garden table eating
hard-boiled eggs, tapped lightly onto rock salt
in between bites. Satisfied, I put a pinch
of salt on my palm, walked towards a snail
on the fence post. I seasoned its slimy body.
It retracted, foaming
like hydrogen peroxide against abrasion.
then slowly
detaching to its fall.

An hour later, it has not emerged.

This slithering open wound, safe
in its shell, will never recover.

To Mother

Mai Santillan June 24, 2019

The poet dedicates this to her own mother, Lea Belen Santillan. The first poem she has ever written for her.

Under the tangerine sky
           I frantically wore
            my yellow tsinelas
            from an afternoon 
            of bato lata 
            and Slipper X

I dusted myself off
and waved farewell
to my playmates
as their mothers
wiped sweat off their faces
with Good Morning towels

I wonder
why Mother never 
           fetched me
           from the plaza

           made my assignments

           or let me cheat
           on quizzbees 

What does it mean to Mother?

Read More

What the Brooke’s Point Farmer Taught Me

Nico Pablo June 24, 2019

There are things bigger than me.

           Like husking the coconut 

           to sip its water,

           hacking the shell, and scraping the meat

           into strands before the third moon sets.

Perhaps your oracle eye fishes

in the shallows for the glimmer of a treasure

chest in the waters off this Palawan quarry.

           Like deciding which fruits of the earth

           can sell, recicada, in any weather

           or can enter the tapahan

           where smoke becomes copra.

No crows seem to caw 

at the rim of the memory

of houses built in debt.

           Like your sun-drenched face cracking open

           to let laughter out. The pink flower

           on your granddaughter?s cake blooms

           against bales of hay piled by rice paddies.

There are things bigger than my stories,

like this island unbowed before a drought,

like the hard shell of the earth.