Wings flare. Hawk soars
as if the sky is Ifugao red
and her wrists shake
with seven silver bracelets, each
dangling a stone etched with
memories formed as feathers,
teardrops, arrowheads. The sound
of her grandmother crushing
gabi leaves for a spell
fills the room. The window persists
with its lack of your face
supplanting the pumice stones
during the monsoon season
in Pampanga. After tasting
salt through her tears
why did you open your pores
to the temptress' curved copper
tongue? Does the witch paint
heavy verbs on your thighs? Boulders
like "ravage," "pillage," "ransack"
or "despoiled"? Peel off their signs
for sweetness: her damp eyes walking
to the front mahogany door
to answer your wing beats
discerned through the breeze.
To arrive home is to release your
armor, dropping it on ancient terrazzo.
—Nick Carbo and Eileen Tabios
2.SILENT TRAILS
Marcelo de Gracia Concepcion
Silent trails
Silent are the trails of Benguet hills,
When the mist veils the sun -
Even when the wind stirs the ferns
And the bamboo brakes sing
Their echoed murmurs.
And the laden Benguet women pass;
Beating their pakkongs*
In cadenced monotones.
Even so,
These trails are lonely...
And deep are the ravines,
And higher still the skies.
3.Ode to the Benguet Lily
She stands out proud
Independent and alone,
In all her beauty
High from between the rocks
That hold up the mountain sides
Exposed to the cold and rain
She is in her element.
In the hot, dry months
She is nowhere to be found.
Even in this month of blooms.
The Benguet Lily has her own season.
On some chosen years
Dotting the mountains white
Further down the Mountain Trail
Appearing in Bontoc and Sadanga.
At some given times
She makes herself scarce
No prodding, coaxing,
Serenading, seducing
Will make her come.
When brought down and planted on flat land
She slowly wilts, withering
Folding up, surrendering, dying.
This beauty cannot be domesticated
She has her own time; she is free.
