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By Angela Gabrielle Fabunan


I arrived at the old kitchen table—


There I found a messy amalgamation

of spoon, forks and knives,

half-eaten menudo, and lechon kawali

papaya peeling off

their own spines.


Remnants of morning light simmers over tables,

and backs of chairs astrewn.


I arrived late to the fiesta, so

here I am, eating the scraps leftover, forever.


Where will I be but in the in-between time of the siesta?

Will there be no place for me but in the malabo of dreamsongs?


You were the certainty of the Morning, you were the one Song

girls in summertime spring from, you were

a Poem.

Your sun’s eye setting over glints of light

on paper plates, tables and chairs.


Outside, the clean laundry dangles on clotheslines swinging

haphazardly to your beat.


But alas, I can only feel distant vibrations from the drums

of the faraway marching band.


Somewhere there is a unifying rhythm, somewhere

is a stanza, beholden

to us pulsing, pulsing.


But it is at the center of the fiesta, long ago, not here,

in this afternoon dimming out of the light.

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