I Was Six when My Father Brought Home a Chick

Share

I was six when my father brought home a chick
The cheap one you see during fiestas in the barrio.

I can’t recall what color
was sprayed upon its ruffled feathers,

but I remember how it felt
holding it between my shaking palms.

Warm. Soft. Tender.
Almost magical.

Then I squeezed the chick. Thinking
that was the proper way of keeping it forever.

My father saw me and said,
“You’re going to crush it,” he smiled.

“The chick is fragile,” and added,
“Handle it with care.”

At nineteen, I should have told you
what my father taught me

before I entrusted you with my heart.

Christian F. Patulot

Christian F. Patulot is a poet, essayist, journalist, and researcher based in Balete, Batangas. He was a fellow of the Philippines Graphic Literary Workshop for Poetry. He writes about culture, language, and the everyday experiences of Filipinos.

Table of contents [hide]

Read More

On My Father’s Tomb

at the town’s public cemetery, I lightthree candles to celebrate his life. Their flames are tiny suns that flickeragainst the dusk. His name on the wooden cross is fading. When was my last visit...

Back to its Roots

The virus made everyone cower inside their houses—windows taped shut as if air and light were poisonous and doors locked tightly as if to shut out more than just a robber but...

Essence

On her windowsillMother keeps a small garden.A patch of many shapes and colors.Old twigs coaxing unborn leaves.Subversive thorns caring for vari-colored blooms.Plants and essences that cureToothaches and loneliness.Here, she wields the power.She...

There Will Be Poems that Escape Our Catching

Grace The many tremors comeunannounced, but we knowthey are coming. The old earthgives way and soft papayasare on the ground. Lemongrassfills the air and everywhere there isa steely edge to the way peoplecall...