Sa lahat ng natikman ko
Ikaw ang paborito ko
Ikaw ang inaabangan ko
Ang masilayan a, ako’y nasasabik
Matagal-tagal na rin akong naghihintay sayo
Sa tagal tilay na prapraning na ako
Sa takot na ikay mawala
Sa pangamba na agawin ka ng iba
Kinuha na kita
Nilayo kita mul sa iyong ina at pamilya
Huli na nang malaman kong
Tamang panahoy di pa pala
Napitas na kita
Kaya ngayong tinitikman na kita
Napakaasim pa pala
Ng paborito kong santol.

I miss some memories of people, 8pms next to a ceiling of November stars and random yo momma jokes.
I miss pepperoni pizzas and orange sodas of a meeting the night before an Algebra exam.
I miss some people who move to the United States, back to Mindanao, away to Makati.
I miss not knowing of a graduation until we sing that batch song one last time.
I miss her under a Langka tree with a chuckle next to the height of my left shoulder. She was measuring my happiness in the little talks and ringing laughter.
I miss wiping her tears as I helped roll her bag across the rocky road to a bus.
I miss being under the wings of God when I first met him through lion puppets and singing prophets.
I miss biting through those chocolate chip cookies after successfully reciting John 3:16.
I miss eating until the tummy says “keep going” and the candy bar bag was always open.
I miss crying when my yaya leaves me everytime I go to kindergarten. This was every single time I get down the school bus.
I miss smiling for a family portrait next to the Christmas tree.
I miss riding across a river with my little brother in paper hats and a floormat boat
I miss walking across a field of santol buds. Ruby to my eyes and to others who pick them.
I miss my panda bear. I could always sew the eyes back on.
I miss being young
But I can’t miss growing up and moving on.

The circle of life:
Rays of the sun
burnt the santol leaves that were
Dried, red, brown, in a mound
Acrid, pungent.
Jumping crustaceans play with
Sige-sige, puyo, fishes;
Screeching of kikik, on the background
That winged insect, luminous wings before
Trapped that kitten on Alaska can, 370 mL
I see the abandoned casing with a hacked back:
Red, brown, dried, clasping
the bark of that old mahogany tree,
Or santol, leaves
A mark on that childhood memory:

Mother screams
“Go home!”
Arms akimbo
You boil that tower of beer crowns and eat you will!, later
Sweats, sweltering sky
She’s towering.
***'s rim, circled, I opened.
Ah, the circle of life!

How old I was I can’t remember well.
But too old for a vivid remembrance, of pain
for me, and death for you.

Whiteness of fur spoke of purity,
blood painted whiteness, Red--
rusted beatings you bore,

Whimpering, wriggling your body
tied on that rope, hanging on that “santol” tree,
bearing witness, wounding your skin,

In agony, you were wrestling
with metals, they folded, they bowed,
clasped to your neck, the rust.

Hide! said my Mama.
Don’t look, she added.
Hide I did and look I did.

In-between those bamboo slats, I saw:
the whiteness of your body;
blood painted the whiteness, red, like the rust.

Sweating.
On that bamboo stick I held, I gripped my hands
also brown, like the lining on your neck.

Tears unshed, sealing my lips.
Like boiling water, trapped on that ***, that these brutes had prepared
scalding your skin,

Dogs fed on dog, these brutes were
singing in worship of “Tanduay”, a bottle,  their god.
Drumbeats wanting, but laugh,  and laugh they did.

Like a good master they called you, Azucena, an innocent girl.
Voice lilting, luring you to your death,
Azucena... not the provincial bus, that will transport you to your grave,

Azucena... not the white “liliums” that abound the heaven, or your grave.
But a name, a noun, to feed their protruding stomachs, stinking,
to wash their rotten soul, perhaps.

Azucena,
Asocena,
But that’s not your name.