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Philippines Graphic Reader

Indelible Stains

It is Saturday morning. I am down on all fours on the bathroom floor.  My hair is kept up by a plastic clamp; my face, bare. Keeping everything pristine is my compulsion.  Today is no exception. Using a rag soaked in Zonrox, I...

Binondo Church

For its brick walls were blotched with rednessLike a child with a high grown fever,The tolling of its bells, bounty and scared. The plaza on its façade, a space of endearmentFor the taho vendors in selling their drinkable breakfastAnd the jeepneys whose wheels turning...

Ninay and the Spirits

The summer Ninay turned ten, her elder sister told her that she should learn to help around the house. Housework should be done the perfect way, her sister said. “No mess. No noise. No clutter.” But Ninay accidentally dropped plates, cups or spoons...

Unbreakable

Exact is not the word; the hurting is felt in many places. - Joel Toledo Mending is necessary as these respites from fragility will no longer do. Mind the volume dial as it floods you with constants and firmitude. Long before right from wrong: language stolen...

Life According to Marlin

My name is Juan Marlin Madero and everyone thought I killed my father. When the policemen drove me over to the Oslob Police Station yesterday morning, they clamored among their squad for the return of the death penalty for people like me.     Only a...

Of Sunrises and Sunsets

1 Night falls I hear crickets And the sound of waves As the sea marks A quiet day Towards a somber weekend 2 I have lived with face masks And face shields For years And where did they get me? I learned to greet With muffled voice And learned to smile With my own eyes I learned how to...

Random Pickings

The Heart Wants What It Wants

Such a slim volume but how sharply it connects, the Reader muses, feeling as though a door were creaking open as Annie Ernaux’s “Simple...

The Gardener

Flowers grew in the cracks of the gardener’s calloused hands as she glanced at the garden she cultivates She never wanted to disrupt their growth, yet they need...

Slaughterhouse Poems

When My Father Passed Away This theater is a slaughterhouse where filaments of grief are too shifty to cut, amusing guests who come  along with gestures broadly understanding what brought them...

Reflections on the Void

I’ll begin with a crude reduction of La Bruyere’s opening paragraph from Les Characteres: Nothing here is meant to be the first of its...