The Day After

The Day After

That afternoon, we counted one
broken window and two
good things: running water
and electricity. That evening,
a hazy yellow moon hung over
our silent city. Just hours earlier, I saw
iron roofs flying toward the horizon.

The day after, my daughter asks me
where I am going. "To work,
my baby." She only remembers a whole
day huddled in blankets, reading books
to distract ourselves from the howling outside.

The day after, the sun is so mild, the air
so soft and cool. I can't believe
we had been pummeled by wind
and rain if not for the flagpole fallen
across our building and the leaves
and branches lining the streets as we make
our way to the office.

That morning, trying to stop
my ears, I watched a video
about disappearing bees.
And now it is all
I can think about. There's
another low pressure area
coming this weekend.

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