either you take the drink
or the drink takes you:
choice of tuba, san miguel beer,
ginebra or vino kulafu—naunsa ba ka?
Naglisud-lisud na ka sa pag-Binisaya!
Only the sea embraces—bluest expanse
drowning all tongues, all thought:
liquor brewed from a brown god’s
blood, seasoned with the salt of memory.
Bisag unsa ka layo, bisag unsa kadugay
manguli ka gihapon sa lithium.
choir voices in the froth and foam intone,
older than bone-white remains of shells;
snarls of seaweed; coconut husks
littering the beach like duende skulls.
Twenty paces ahead, ancient powdery
sand welcomes her still-young German body
covered in batik-patterned, red-black two-piece
Lycra; stretching out in the shade, her mind
adrift on words flowing from her Kindle.
This is not, surely, the Panglao of his youth.
There’s a smarting of his skin from a just
after luncheon sun—his bedraggled sack
of fat, bones, and skin reminding itself,
five decades on: this is still, must be, home.
No matter how far, no matter how long
you will still come home to love.