CENTAUR

Hiding in the hay
me a terrified little boy
& my uncle like a terrified little boy

the voices in his head telling him to be afraid
of all strangers...changes.

He’s been like this
since the day his Dad(my unknown grandfather)
died.

My Aunt’s voice
searching for us...searching us out.

Her shouts like bloodhounds
hunting us down

her words angry & cruel.

Her angry voice slurring us into:
“DonallSeanie! ”

as if we had fused into one being
a metamorphosis of us.

The hay cooks us
and we swelter in our hidey hole

A chicken sits on top
of my uncle’s cap

as if his mind had
materialised into this shape.

He rocks himself
and rocks me.

“Shhhh...boy...shhhh! ”
comforting both him & me.

“Don’t leave me! ”
he clucks

the words scattered around him
like newly laid eggs.

I settle into his silence.

My Aunt’s threats freezing us
in this terrible heat.

His chest hair
tickles my nose.

The cut on my left big toe
throbs through the open sandal.

My uncle cries in fear.

I wipe away the tear
with the ***** edge of my sleeve.

We escape to
the West field

me riding his shoulders

transformed into
a legendary creature

that only exists in myths
fleeing from the realness

...of reality.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF A LITTLE GIRL

she's a mere three
demands to know
"...the history of me..."

well, now I say
that was a long time ago
"...try to remember..." she pleads.

I remember when you
first came out of your shell
hatched into a lovely little girl

you were my duckling
everywhere I went
there you were

I could hear you cry
even before you cried
you made me a good daddy/mummy

your dreams
staining the blue
pillow with golden curls

every night the moon
would come to our window
just to take a peep at you

one day your name
perched upon you
and never flew off again

you were a fairy story
I had never heard before
and wanted to hear more

once when you fell
you hit the road
"Naughty road for falling me!"

"No I never!"
she squeals
"Oh yes you did!" I tickle

"Is there any more of me?"
"Oh loads...loads more
but I too old and tired!"

"Well..!" she tells her dolls
"He tells a good story but
shhh...it's not all true!"

the dolls gasp in disbelief
having drunk  down
the dregs of every detail

just tell me how much you like me to smile so i can keep smiling at you with warmth until you melt.

tell me about the type of songs you listen and the films you watch so we can earmark a day or two to revel in their magic together.

tell me of the days you are free so i can synchronize mine then we can be together again.

tell me of the things you hate, so we can make a team to steer clear of them and share in our mutual disdain.

tell me that you love the sky as well, stretched above like a vast azure dome, so we can both lie on the grass until sunset.

just tell me how much you like me and in turn, i shall speak the depth of my enduring affection for you, a sentiment that has blossomed ever since you first spoke my name.

on a fishing boat
our backs both sunburned
by the sun of May
we sang a kundiman
while we oared to the spot
where pebbles shimmered
like scattered ornaments

“quick. we must hurry.”
you spoke with enthusiasm
as the sun, as we saw it,
slowly nearing
the islands adjacent to ours

but how could i? when your torso
rendered me weak in the hands
you were god-like with firm shoulders
and you reminded me of Maka-andog
whose body akin to boulders

sat on a rattan chair, my little self once posed a question to my late great-grandmother with dementia
“why was i named after a saint?”

“francis, that is to protect you from the threat of carbines and tanks that the hapons toy against us, filipinos.” she spoke like i’ve been warned.

then i remembered my half-japanese friend whose brain akin to a monggo bean.

i did not believe her.

how could i believe when my friend couldn’t learn my mother tongue?

fifteen years later, i learned that my late great-grandmother used to cover her visage with thick talcum, pretending as geisha to trick the makapilis

the makapilis were filipinos who sided with the japanese.
but they were worse.
they would bang your heads with their blood-stained fists if you refuse to speak the whereabouts of a guerilla’s leader.

guised as a geisha, my late great-grandmother would lure a makapili to her home. there, she would cut his throat with a dagger and let the makapili suffer in a pool of blood.

“if you love this country, that is how you cleanse it—eliminate the ones who betray it.” she once told my mother.

often, i think about her.

all along, my late great-grandmother had been warning us—it is not always the outsiders who will hurt you, sometimes it is the ones who reside with you in the same village, same home, or share your blood.

and that would hurt a lot akin to a gunshot piercing through your waist

you must always be prepared for such treachery, like a warrior who is always ready to draw a mighty dagger from her scabbard to expel those who opt to betray her and her land.

vinegar, soy sauce, crushed garlic, peppercorns, and bay leaves
i saw my mother mixed these
in a palayok softened to a gentle patina.

i’d like to help, but my hands
were already covered in bruises
from playing luksong baka.

“where have you been, boy?”
mother asked, as she raised the sandok,
while her eyes glued to the palayok.

i wanted to tell her i’ve been with a friend,
a boy, who pushed me into a charcoal pit
so my knees were black.

but this friend came to our house
carrying a small ointment,  bottled in green.

he smiled.

and i looked at him,  hesitant to give it back.
i learned that the ointment
was for the wounds i got
from his own mischief.

but he didn’t apologize.
instead, he sat on a dining rattan chair,
facing me.

“why is he here?
isn’t he ashamed of what he had done?”
i thought.

“oy hijo, didi nala kaon.”
mother, in a duster dress, spoke to him
while serving the paksiw,
we could smell its tangy scent
of vinegar and crushed garlic.

she managed to notice
that we might be in a little fight
so she told us that we must have our backs
for each other, always.

and we did.

twenty years later, this friend came back
to our house, redoing the scene:
carrying an ointment bottled in green.

“tita, don’t you know
he’s been crying over a stupid man?”
he spoke and laughed, childlike.

oh this boy, unaware of my charade,
as i fake drama, keeps comforting me
again and again and again.

mother served the same paksiw
and i found myself smiling,
watching him treat my home, a home.

imagine this
you awoke to the chirping of mayas,
to the crowing of your neighbor’s chickens,
to the sound of vehicles jolting by the holes

you felt the amber light of sun,
kissing your cheeks
while it exposed the spiders forming
cobwebs on the corners of your room

what a pleasant day, wasn’t it?
to see children by the street
playing patintero
while you watered the bougainvilleas
your mother loved better than you

then you remembered it was Saturday again
and a friend’s mother would come,
selling a basket of bananacues

you quickly grabbed a copy of Jessica Zafra
from your bookshelf with a collection
of novels that you bought
from pickpocketing your father

you marched your way
down to your living area
through the stairs filled
with potted pothos and jade plants
your mother treated like little kids

today must be beautiful. you thought.
so you checked your phone,
hoping for an invitation to a beach.
because why not?
with this sky reminiscent of turquoise,
your skin yearned for the sun

instead of an invitation,
a forwarded message
popped in your screen:
the fourth murderr of the month.

a man shot dead in broad daylight
along the diversion road
in a barrio next to yours.

the spot turned red
as the blood of the man streamed
like a draining river.
people circled the murdered
as if it was news to them.
reality was, it had become a norm

gunshot after gunshot.
you heard them like bad songs on a stereo
and how could you turn it off? stop it?
you had no idea

you see, waking up
in this beautiful island is a bliss.
you get to watch the cinematic view
of a horizon where the sky kisses the sea,
while you stand firm on the pristine shores,
listening to the gentle rustle of palm trees

yet it was only a facade

on this island, where shores shimmer
like jewelry and lush greenery
abounds in beauty,
lies a darker truth

while the murdered men sleep
in agony of injustice,
the culprits loiter in this island,
smoking, plotting the next fire

nagugma ak sa imo
i remember you once told me this
as we lingered on a riverbank
for the sunset

how can i unlove my mother tongue
when it sounds like a tune
that emanates from your lips