my man, god-like
no longer must you please me
your skin the color of dark amber
already has my eyes
and your breath, a scent of jasmine
turns the ylang-ylangs a stranger

no longer must you wonder
whether or not my heart
only yearns for yours
because i’m always yours
even when you turn my bones
to brittle everytime a spear
slung across your back for a hunt

maybe, in a universe opposite to ours,
the mothers never warned us
about the looming threats
of our potential demise
by stray bullets,
we would have been raised
unaware of the stench of blood
that have dried on roads,
murders could be a stranger
and any person could lead
a village without the thought
of having him killed
in plain sight

because in this town,
where flowerbeds are
a kaleidoscope along the roads,
where banyan trees serve
the children a home,
where the sky is always
a cloudless blue,
we fear no monsters lurking
even in the shade
of red harvest moon,
but men in mask
who turned pistols as toys

when the sky turned black and we see red circles blazing from warlike planes,
when rivers streamed deep red and we see no children running,
when the air smelled like gunfires and we see nothing but the wilting of flowers,
when small boys turned daggers into toys and we hear nothing but the shaking of the grounds,

know that my presense is always in the scent of orchids that get lost through your nostrils,
know that we breathe in the same country and i would cross seas even when they became a pool of corpses,
know that i will be the same child who kissed you under the moonbeams

meet me
at a roof of an abandoned store. there, we will linger until the sinking of the sun, reddening the sky. we will watch the people below passing akin to a colony of weaver ants, eager to find something to relish.

hug me
tight with your arms as the sun, a zircon red, turns our bodies a luminary akin to a tribunal of fireflies.  we won’t let go until we see no flower bed of asters and we hear nothing but the singing of cicadas.

kiss me
on my lips, a soft ripe mango. lick them. bite them until they turn crimson. show them how your tongue resembles a slender snake as the mothers, down below us, watching, perform sign of the cross.

beauty, as we call it, is seen upon the laughter of a child who plays marbles under the morning sunbeams

a dog that, amidst the scorching midday sun, trails its master selling sorbetes to the kids who wear smiles and bruises on their knees

the crowing of roosters and the chirping of birds while the falling leaves of yellow acacia listen as they gracefully descend to the land

beauty, as we call it, is already seen only when our eyes see no war but peace

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

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.