The sky is never gray and can’t help but shrivel the fruit—if only there were some clouds to push out at it. But clouds would just dissolve in the ocean’s glare. At least there’s golden mango skin stretched over sweet flesh, honeying sap as it breaks.

AGAIN, SHE TELLS THE FIRST STORY

AGAIN, SHE TELLS THE FIRST STORY

Once, when there was no light, the wind danced with the sea, whose glassy surface became untamed funnels and silver-crested waves as she leapt and spun. The wind also spun and let out a mighty roar. You have heard this one before, no? How earth convulsed as if laughing. How seafloor forced her fingertips skyward. How she freed her body from the silent, murky depths.

She who was born of the rocks fell in love with the one who was born of sea spume. There upon the rocks, they spread seeds and soil, and from these the bamboo sprouted. It rooted itself in those rocks, and some say lightning, some say a bird split this bamboo open.

Others say a great serpent ruled the sea, and set upon his crown, a gleaming stone upon which the skyfolk spilled dark earth. I do not know why they tried to bury the serpent, but because of this, he hissed and lashed at them. The sea was once sweet and cool as rainwater. In the north, a medicine woman told us of her people’s prayers for salt. Hot winds brought to them fragrances of the dead. After the waters receded, the shores became the color of clear crystals and blood.

Hija, I bring the sea tobacco leaves and fruit, but still no stories come to me. I plead with her, O diwata, please accept this offering. O diwata, to hear your words is all I ask. Today as ever, she gives me but silence.

UPLAND DANCE

UPLAND DANCE

hold arm taut kastoy

flat palm down kastoy

flick wrist so kastoy

ima pagay billít angin

step gong clang step

step trance chant step

clink bronze band clink

ima pagay billít angin

step plant bend step

step dip twirl step

tap wood click tap

ima pagay billít angin

step ripe earth step

step cut swirl step

thresh husk drum thresh

ima pagay billít angin

A PARABLE

A PARABLE

The mermaid loosed her tongue against another, a twittering songbird in a fragrant tree. The mermaid loosed her tongue as if she were extending claws to swipe, as if craving warm blood. In her sleep, a vision. A tangle of thorns encircling the songbird. Doves’ rank, rotted plumage. Maggot-infested eagles, wings and beaks, clipped. Lawin’s crusty, milky eyes. Herons’ open sores, overcome with infection.

Diwata came to the mermaid, stroked her thick, night-black hair. Do not fear, for one day the songbird will trill in a palace of pearls and summer seashells. And the mermaid breathed a sigh, lulled to sleep by the song of the ocean breeze.

DUYONG 1