Habagat

for Clea

by Justine C. Tajonera

We escaped the storm in Manila by a day.
The skies were overcast for days at the beach.
While we walked the length of Station 1 and 2,
I watched the perfect curve of your cheek, the
way a bikini, which I've dreaded my whole life, was
nothing to you. Around you, the time has come. Pork
barrels are rolling open like so many mouths with lolling
tongues, the streets at home are filling up with murky
water, the seas are heating up like a potent
soup. By the time we come back to Manila,
the people will have taken to the streets.
I want you to keep running unhampered in the sand.
I want you to be cheeky and defiant, the way
you are now as you hold up that stick in your hands.
I want you to kick up the dust and say
want you want. All I wish for are at least
a few seasons of amihan to hold up the tumult
that you are. All I wish for are a few quiet
summers for you, for your children, when there
are no crippling droughts, no floods,
in the coming months, to survive.

Boracay, August 18, 2013

A Temperate Country

by Justine C. Tajonera

It was only when
my fingertips were almost frozen,
and my lips were quivering and chapped
that I remembered how,
at home,
there was never
a harsh winter

or even a howling
autumn.

I know that we've had
perilous floods
and droughts
and that is,
in some way,
our own version
of the cruel
face of our
Mother.

But we are blessed
with only summer
or rain
and our islands run
riot with color
and beauty
that are hidden
from our own
eyes.

When I arrived,
thawed and warm,
I was tempted to pick
apart the airport
and the streets.
But I remembered
the punishing cold
and welcomed
the heat.

(March 22, 2010)
Image of a Metro Manila Sunrise from http://www.flickr.com/photos/huno/2994914748/