Bouncing, rebounding
on the floor of my memory -
the ball of my elder sister’s jackstones
and the lead washer of my elder brother’s sipa
travelling to and fro
the tops and yoyos
among the imaginary bread doughs
of gathered dust
from that childhood
sprinkled with the *** of yesterday
to bake make-believe
rice puddings
and rice cakes
- they seem to be spoiled now
in the food cupboards of computers
and eventually interred
in the graveyards of cellular phones
In the cemetery of memories
the ghost of poverty still haunts
never, ever unescapable
for every gulp of you
warmly soothes
the throats of scenarios
of all dramas and movies
in that nesting home
now decrepit, debilitated:
after the day’s toils:
you helped me swallow the lump of aromatic rice
- cooked by Mother - the old fragrant stock
that she loaned from the vendor from Quezon
not even a piece of dried fish accompanying
nothing else, only you, my brewed coffee
nice both as dip and soup.
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 10:26 PM UTC
Bouncing, rebounding
on the floor of my memory -
the ball of my elder sister’s jackstones
and the lead washer of my elder brother’s sipa
travelling to and fro
the tops and yoyos
among the imaginary bread doughs
of gathered dust
from that childhood
sprinkled with the *** of yesterday
to bake make-believe
rice puddings
and rice cakes
- they seem to be spoiled now
in the food cupboards of computers
and eventually interred
in the graveyards of cellular phones
In the cemetery of memories
the ghost of poverty still haunts
never, ever unescapable
for every gulp of you
warmly soothes
the throats of scenarios
of all dramas and movies
in that nesting home
now decrepit, debilitated:
after the day’s toils:
you helped me swallow the lump of aromatic rice
- cooked by Mother - the old fragrant stock
that she loaned from the vendor from Quezon
not even a piece of dried fish accompanying
nothing else, only you, my brewed coffee
nice both as dip and soup.
A translation of my poem "Kapeng Barako III" published on October 4, 2017
Request permission to use this poem