Written in Daquioag, Marcos, Ilocos Norte
It stands in the middle of the living room,
its sides are taped carefully, mummified in clear
packing tape, almost four feet tall,
set to ship the Pacific for you.
A set of china,
plates laced with cloth
and brown paper in between.
Each one, covered in rim-woven patterns
and branches of blue columbines,
drooping to the concave centre.
Underneath it is a gilded mirror.
Wrought, antiqued, and thrifted
twenty by ten.
Just enough class
for an elevated aesthetic.
A collection of letters and poems,
slid on the side to compact it tightly.
In an envelope,
ten thousand dollars,
scraped up from long hours.
Shoes of assorted sizes,
twelve pairs to be exact.
Tubs of face cream, lipsticks,
eyeshadows, soap, toothpaste,
pumps of shampoo and conditioner,
thrift-store designer clothes,
old tablets and phones,
multivitamins,
toys for the little ones,
sweaters and hoodies —
even in the now-searing summer.
I stood over the box,
almost bursting,
contemplating what else
I could put inside
to send to you.
I couldn’t talk or scream loud enough,
to cram my lauds, love, and concerns.
And I couldn’t close the box
fast enough to keep it echoing inside.
I’ve put in inexpensive wafers,
chocolates, caramels,
precautious of melting points.
Two bottles of spirits, and three bottles of wine,
for the social drinkers, scattered
through the age spectrum.
I stand over it again, before the final pass
of tape, wishing I could fit inside too.
There is a never-ending hum,
revived by the fast talkers,
small talk is never a challenge,
the “passed-on” conversations
start a revolution. The city is
a witness to this. The dust
from cars and volcanoes is
biding its time to settle.
It puts a grey-faded filter upon
the city. Covering commercial
complexes and old stone strongholds.
The low prevalent noise,
the singing of our hearts,
or our impertinent sorrow.
The familiarity fazes me.
The headache of letting go,
or the constant gridlock,
held hands, locked in struggle.
It could also just be
the slow crawl
of the North Bound Highway.
You see almond-curved eyes
over brown-skinned people,
peddling on centuries-old
stone and wood, burned
and salvaged through wars.
I was let go of this land.
Before I came of age.
Before the land could claim me.
And yet, I still miss home.