Tomas, understand:
it has become my habit
to make the sign of the cross
when passing by any tower
with a crucifix on top. Who would have thought
that not all cross-bearing edifices
are God’s sanctuaries? Ripples of giggles
swelled in my ears and flowed through my skin,
slowly becoming as pink as a pomelo.
You should have told me about it, Tomas,
just like how you have warned me
of rivers and seas and waterfalls
overflowing in August, breeding ditches
and mutant fishes. I could feel their tentacles
at my feet, creeping up to my knees,
encompassing my thighs. How I dreaded
to tread, let alone swim, in that
ocean of muck, Tomas,
but it is nothing compared to the monsters
you bred: the Cyclops camouflaging in the form
of unblinking nights with the computer,
circles forming under my eyes, and the
Minotaur in your mind-boggling labyrinths
masked as misleading questions designed
to make me lose my path. Tomas,
you subject me to these tortures, only to be redeemed
by fireworks culminating every year,
a burst of green and red and yellow
(and the whole ensemble of rainbows)
lighting up the sky, as faces like mine
watched in awe for four Decembers. I reveled
in their beauty, though a measly consolation
for a year’s unsolicited scourging. But,
if given a chance, Tomas,
to walk between the arch of ancient stones
(said to bring one back to the past)
once again, I will gladly do so:
to return to one’s roots, like a wounded child
searching for his mother’s embrace, or a cub
returning to its home, its first prey
dangling between its tiny, bloodied fangs.
Myla Jasmine U. Bantog
