An Old Manang on a Hot Afternoon in Cabrera Street

Poetry by | November 13, 2011

Old Manang
As my watch ticked three in the afternoon
I lay daydreaming, sweating on my bed.
The heat, tempting the corners of the room
biting my skin, getting me exhausted.
I put on my clothes and slowly walked out,
Watched the street with honking cars and tricycles
Passing by and heard tambays talk about
a bayot with big breasts and pierced navel
clinging to the arm of the white man beside him.
Craving for something to wet my mouth with,
I stopped at Hermo’s and got caught
by a young man’s melting look
driven as if by a lost question or a trance.
My thirst grew more. I wanted to bed him
and let the heat boil down my desires.
Yet as quickly as my lust grew, shame fell on me;
How crazy to let my lust feed
on this beautiful youth! My mean thoughts,
an ageless torture. Walking out fast, I
end up buying and sucking two salty hot orbs
of balut from a peddler, my mind
doomed by the hot, dusty, and tired afternoon.


Lyda May D. Sual is a BA English graduate of UP Mindanao.

The Farmer’s Wife

Poetry by | April 26, 2009

(After Dorriane Laux’s “The Shipfitter’s Wife”)
 
At dusk, after you have plowed
the vast field—grains of green
scattered beyond my vision, I will
embraceyou,clingtoyou.
Be drowned again in the incense
of your sweat, taste it like
I have never met salt in my cooking before.

Tonight—
I’ll play another wife, after the soil
which everyday you avow
to marry and toil.
Tonight,
I’ll be waiting, languid on this bamboo bed,
to be plowed—
and become whole again.

Billiards

Poetry by | April 26, 2009

(For B.)

I’ve always watched in awe
the perfect flourish of your hands
and the outline of your stance
as you gracefully pushed your stick
with your firm grip
and slid the number-9 ball
into the waiting hole.

I always imagined
I was the most attractive pocket,
Yet it doesn’t seem so.
For every time you strike
the balls with your stick
you always fail
to sink it
into me.

Continue reading Billiards

Night Out

Poetry by | January 27, 2008

Tonight’s no night for stories and poems
The moon’s fair, witches are out leaping
from eaves to twigs
I paced about; heard them sing
“Come catch the moon about to fall.”

Night Out

Poetry by | January 20, 2008

Tonight’s no night for stories and poems
The moon’s fair, witches are out leaping
from eaves to twigs
I paced about; heard them sing
“Come catch the moon about to fall.”