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
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.