On the weathered pier of Huntington
laid upon the salt licked beach,
the old, hull of a forgotten
ship. Split, for its wooden fruit. The juice
of our sweat becoming mist
while we walked the plank,
in suspense, between clouds and sea.
The knotted surface sore
from sun. Burnt backs float
on the waters of their green veins,
like Guamamela1 on the dirty river
banks. “NO ACCESS,” signs in red
and white lights, harshly beating
against the dark skin of the wood,
the memory of another life.
I remember, my Lolo and Lola
bending to the waves of people
pressed still in one space.
The one time, they could hold onto
my hands, I felt them shaking.
In tongues they resurrected
the island, said there none
of this exists.
Why did I laugh?
1. Filipino hibiscus