by Lingayen Beach, 1977
I don’t tell lies. Memory’s more
beautiful than truth. So I say,
the air was blossoming jasmine trees
and smoke. And it’s true.
Clothes boiled in tin tubs. A child,
I watched my uncle splinter
arms of bamboo, his dark skin a blur
in steamy drizzle. A woman
with the burning end of a cigarette
turned inside her lips. Her smile,
a mouth of pink gums squeezed
together. Mornings, my brother and I
raced down the soft belly of the beach,
climbed palm trees—grasping circular rungs
like a throat—to see coconuts churning
in the surf; the skeleton of a torn-down
fighter plane, its snapped propellers,
dented cockpit; fire holes on the beach
where my family came down at night
Dad drank San Miguels and never quit
talking. Filipinos laughed at him.
Mom sat, embarrassed, in the sand.
My cousins, brother, and I stripped cane.
The story ends there for children,
but you wait in bed to hear the rest—
how the air was steam, mosquito incense.
Auntie Marietta set the table. Lanterns
turned her skin red/blue.
I sat in the clubhouse watching
old men play pool till one said
I look old enough to kiss.
Mr. President O. came to campus today. I watched as his motorcade pulled up and the presidential limo pulled backwards into the back entrance of Kresge Auditorium, and then some people rushed out of the motorcade, and that was it. I was not invited to hear the speech because, ostensibly, I don’t study climate stuff.
HOWEVER, just before O. arrived, some other climate students did do an action as part of the global >350 (ppm sustainable carbon emissions goal) campaign, and I took part. The laptops are for techy-affect. I’m the one in the alpaca hat, por supuesto.
This is a neat flash poem made by one of my students for our ‘video/visual poem’ class assignment.
