May 23, 2008
I have replaced you so many times
In my mind, changed your age and face.
Today I imagined you five years old, wearing
one of my shirts that fell all the way down
to your knees. We watched TV for a while and
when a dog was shot in a movie you asked
“Is that puppy sleeping?” And I said, “Yes, for his own good.”
At nights I would tuck you in beside me,
watching you sleep softly still, until
I realized that whenever I stand still
the landscape stretches and reveals new things—
mountains, previously dots on the horizon,
loom and threaten to crush or force me to run;
and so I run in the other direction
forgetting, keeping the memories in the dark
closet, where the cat, Milky, liked to sleep.
Later, I asked you not to go near her as she had
Just given birth on my newly washed towels.
Later we found that the kittens were stillborn,
flesh stuck together, like a foreboding feeling
that couldn't be shaken off, only buried,
in a shoe box grave under a willow in the yard. Though
Milky came every night to look for them in the closet anyway.
During fiestas you would speak to me as a pig would speak
before it was slaughtered. Your voice drowning the
busy chatter of relatives and friends preparing meals,
skinning sausages with sharp kitchen knives, slicing
fetal curves of garlic, crushing them into pepper, and I -
would choke on a throat full of water
and watch you trickle on the metal basin
full of raw dinuguan.*
*dinuguan - "pork blood stew" or "chocolate meat" or "chocolate pudding" in English, is a Filipino savory stew of blood sausage and offal simmered in a rich, spicy gravy of pig blood, garlic, chili and vinegar.(from wikipedia)
Labels: dark, death, female, poetry
Jul 4, 2007
In his basement, cylinder posts
were pile driven on her cheeks,
so that she, a Picasso blue,
could turn on the sphere lamps
every time he came in to finish her.
Never satisfied, he kept painting her
until her sight dimmed upside down.
Cones of brown split an eyebrow while
shadows crept in geometric progression
on her bottom lip-- broken lines
silencing what was once a mouth,
so he can keep her off
the market until he dies.
[this was supposed to be a rewrite of this poem but it turned out differently though]
Labels: dark, female, poetry, sad
Jun 7, 2007
She hovers above the casket
draped in the nation's flag:
the brute's widow keeping vigil
dutifully unfurls at sunrise.
Eyes closed, she lifts her arms,
imagining herself soar through
the still air— a banner of freedom
she knows will never last
because at sunset they will
bring
her
down
with
ropes
that
bind
her
ankles
to the
flagpost.
Labels: female, philosophy, poetry, politics
May 30, 2007
She slept
after dancing all night
with fraternity men
a pack of party animals
doing the swing
with her
after dancing all night
with fraternity men
a pack of party animals
doing the swing
with her
guts
between
their teeth.
between
their teeth.
May 15, 2007
I am your masterpiece in stone.
An age-old obsession shaped
with chisel, mallet and rasp
transforming beauty to flesh,
so that you may have me
dance on raised platforms
from sunup to sundown-
lost in city slum shadows of noon
and pyre-bright night markets,
face painted to hide alabaster
skin and cracked lips -
mended and broken several times,
providing the rouge used
to color the sunken cheeks
and pasted smiles I flash
devotees laying offerings
in a metal box at my feet,
forcing me to bend before
the bed that is your pedestal-
bowing beneath bones of men
to get my share of applause
you swore will earn me a husband,
head served on a silver platter,
blindfolded and bound to
a ritual of clamped mouths where
I am brought to my knees
to learn the face of every hard rock
thrown and embedded in my flesh,
mapping stone paths that will lead
to the temples that created me-
so that I may carve my name
on every post and lintel
until they finally crumble
into the dust that fills
my hollow structure.
An age-old obsession shaped
with chisel, mallet and rasp
transforming beauty to flesh,
so that you may have me
dance on raised platforms
from sunup to sundown-
lost in city slum shadows of noon
and pyre-bright night markets,
face painted to hide alabaster
skin and cracked lips -
mended and broken several times,
providing the rouge used
to color the sunken cheeks
and pasted smiles I flash
devotees laying offerings
in a metal box at my feet,
forcing me to bend before
the bed that is your pedestal-
bowing beneath bones of men
to get my share of applause
you swore will earn me a husband,
head served on a silver platter,
blindfolded and bound to
a ritual of clamped mouths where
I am brought to my knees
to learn the face of every hard rock
thrown and embedded in my flesh,
mapping stone paths that will lead
to the temples that created me-
so that I may carve my name
on every post and lintel
until they finally crumble
into the dust that fills
my hollow structure.
Apr 28, 2007
I am born
with a deep trench
between my thighs.
Deep enough to sink
memories of waiting
in evening corners,
submerged under streetlights,
in a flotsam body
exiled by needs
anchored on the sand.
I am dying
with a deep wound
between my thighs.
Carved by waves
like a mouth gaping for air
while hands clamp over it,
stanching red tears
from deep holes
where my eyes
should have been.
[this was submitted for the CARNIVAL AGAINST SEXUAL VIOLENCE]
Apr 27, 2007
He painted her
so many times,
replaced her harrowed face
with dabs of color over
blank canvas-cheeks.
A few quick strokes
carved her mouth upward
toward washed out eyes,
makeshift easels for brushes
to blend in the sun's warmth.
But he was always
too lazy to finish her,
so he stored her in
damp basements with
pipes that leaked
blood-rust onto her head,
dripping downward
to split an eyebrow
continuing down
to streak from eyes,
smearing her face
with shadows on her
bottom lip--
broken lines
which were once
her mouth,
making her
a little too
abstract
for his taste.
