That night, that second,

when you were dying a thousand deaths

in my arms, I pulled my left hand from your waist

and lifted the bottle of San Miguel Beer on the table

and poured its remaining content all over me.

Then I, à la gremlin, multiplied into a thousand

first aiders (each duly certified) to save you

from each impending death.

And I (or we) succeeded:

By dawn, you were a young flower

blooming for the first time.

Reborn.

Reenergized.

Revirginized.

And just to be sure, in case there won’t be

a single bottle of San Miguel Beer

come the next mortal moment, yesterday

I spent all my savings for your memorial plan,

bought from Loyola Memorial Park, so you’ll be

buried someday among this country’s

showbiz celebrities, artists, heroes, etcetera.

(The only caveat: among the etcetera,

are probably crooks.)

What? You don’t want this post-mortem gift?

I’m wrong again?

You prefer the Libingan ng mga Bayani instead?!

(Well, I guess as far as sharing your final resting place

with heroes and a certified crook goes, you’re right.)

­

I Sent for the Clown, But…

You don’t invite me to your parties anymore.

I guess you’re sure I don’t deliver the goods, anyway.

I’m certain you remember and still reel from the failed promise

I made to hire a clown for your birthday years ago.

You never believed me when I told you that he was

on his way but suffered a flat tire, and had to back out

at the last minute. I was apologetic, for the clown and myself.

You didn’t believe that I really sent for one.

When I showed you the receipt for the down payment

from the party needs shop, you accused me

that I had it faked somewhere along Recto Avenue.

At least the other clown made it to your party:

the one who sent for the other one.