PERMISSION

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Sip after sip, stories are uncorked 
this way from wine bottles, from there flow 
heady remembrances and sudden tears
tastes bittersweet, pungent, awakening
as stars rise and shine on dark nights
and make visits home amazing, lifted
by the multitude of tales, clarified, finally, parsed, 
unpacked in intoxicating shots laced with gossip 
through lowered tones, secrets are drunk, telling
of the way things took place, what really happened
falls fast from tongues of women, kin and close, 
kindred and far, why they fall, so easily, scattered
even while they struggle to steady, you focus
the spirit, hide your clapping ears, make efforts not 
to show surprise, keep eyebrows calm and exclamations, unexpressed,
instead wildly wishing for a pen and paper, you squeeze
tight the tale and commit it to flawed, faulty memory.

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And then later, much later, when eyes begin to
fail, when tongues tire and faculties flag, 
that’s the time to ask 
the question you waited to ask at first 
kept till last, kept till now, you say, 
may I, might I, can I write this, please?

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Laughter crackles in the cool, dark
night air as they nod, yes, yes, yes 
yet in the morning, forget what it is they gave
what they gave up and gave you 
precious cherished secrets you hold tight
gripped hard in your hand that is your heart.

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FILIPINO COTTON FRUIT

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Even when you say its name in English
Santol yields scant recognition, only
puzzled looks so we then describe to them 
this peculiar fruit, its strange tart taste,
the sour, subtly sweet outer flesh
that requires softening by 
a hundred or more cuts from the sharp 
blade of a cutting knife, and then it is 
squeezed against rock salt and dipped 
in dark brewed vinegar, to be enjoyed,  
consumed to the last threads of the
fleshy, cottony seeds which we feed upon
work them in the mouth for pin-points of flavour 
mild sweetness that we suck till nothing is left
just gross, sad, tasteless sucked-up pits. The pits.

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And they say they don’t get it. What on earth is
the appeal of yearning for something 
that doesn’t look like anything at all from the onset?
What is the point of wanting so much from 
something destined never to give anything more 
than its own woolly cotton nothingness?

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And then they see what happens in our country, 
the leaders and politicians and their empty words  
promises landing on the shallow surface of the hearts hopeful, 
tireless, sad, forgetful people and slowly, they nod 
and blink, and maybe begin to understand

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PARK CONNECTOR

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On and on it goes, the mud brown ground, wending 
its way, a path feathered by green, stretching on as leaves on branches sprawled 
on the ground’s mossy thickets thickly green in deep, multiple shades as
vivid as the sky’s blue dips and veers, buoying clouds so white, we cannot 
see beyond our flawed and faulty steps, our sweaty elbows sometimes 
touching by accident
or in deliberate act to point out a second too late, 
the sharp yellow of the black-naped oriole in a rush or the piercing peacock-blue 
wing of the white-throated kingfisher in mid-dive— 
sights refresh exhausted eyes, 
lending ease and blessing minds with nurturing forgetfulness 
far from the chronic conflicts, the quarrels quotidian, the hurting mistakes, 
heartbreak aches, and why
just the whole worn-out, warring, wicked world that wilds and withers us and on we go, stepping light for green makes a carpet soft and easy to tread, and forward is the pulling action by which we are led towards a different space that makes familiar hues new—
the ivory of the egret graceful is the not pearl of a porcelain plate 
nor is the blue grey of a heron the screen of slate we face of late.

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And as the hour passes, so pass the glances we trade 
the hand finds hand, the eyes lock in moments 
the way fingertips touch, and all the creatures 
signal each other and another world by which to measure our measures 
to keep its rhythm with footfalls, scan the waterways and monitor the monitor lizards 
dawdle as the turtles, alter with the otters that scurry and beckon to us

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Come, come see this other place, somewhere else, elsewhere, 
for change and for pace, for being here, not there, now and not then, 
and amid green and bark and sparkling air of white and blue, allow us 
movement and growth and yielding, connection.