Sagkód

Malisyahan ta na kun ta’nô
an mga kahoy sa kamposanto,
matataba, pusog an mga písog
mababansay asín an mga dahon
berdeng nagkukurahaw
sa bulanit kan saldang
o sa kítik kan tagíti.

Áram ta na bagá an rason
kun ta’nô ta garó mga banderitas
an mga dahon kan kawayan
sa haraning pantyong,
kun ta’nô ta garó may nagpipiyesta
sa tahaw kan satuyang kamundóan.

Kun ta’nô ta biglang minadakula
an kanding kun nakakabuhi
asín nakukuâ tang nagsasapâ-sapâ
na kan mga duót sa daan nang mausoleo.
Ano ta daí kita nagbabakal nin alípi
asín putó lanson duman sa paratinda
na aswang daâ idtó na naglalakaw kun udtó.
Kakolór pati kan álang na tulang nin tawó
an pigrunot na bagás asín ginibong puto.

Alágad ta’nô ta masiram an saiyang mga tinda
ta aram tang gibo an alípi sa kamoteng kahoy
na pig-aataman kan mga kalag na daí nang pagmati,
daí na sábot an magutom, an mapung’aw an dila.
Malisyahan ‘tana ini asín kun ako magadan na,
huli sa makúring pagka-uri kaining kinâbán,
italbong ako túlos, duman sa kuntód,
na sakuyang nilalakawan kan ako aki pa
ta mawót kong maging layás na burak
na gugutuson nin sarong aki—
pwede akong ipaipli sa talinga
o saró-saró na tanggalon an mga petalyo
mantáng pighahanap an simbag:
Kun padangat ako, iyo, padangat ako, dai.

Thereafter

Let us humor each other and talk
about why the trees in the cemetery 
are strong, limbs awash with bounty, 
blessed and with brilliant leaves 
that bellow green 
under the shards of sunlight 
or the rain’s tickling showers.

After all, we know why 
the leaves of bamboo 
over a nearby grave 
hang like streamers 
and why it looks like there’s a fiesta 
in the middle of our grief.

We know why escaped goats 
grow fat all of a sudden 
when we find them chewing 
on grass growing by the old mausoleum. 
And why we don’t buy rice cakes 
from the vendor rumored 
to be a witch who walks in daylight. 
Especially when you notice the rice flour 
that she uses is the color of human bone. 

Yet we know her wares are delicious
because they are made from cassava
tended to by souls who have passed and
no longer desire food nor miss its taste.
Humor me because when I die, 
an envious man jealous of the world,
I want to be buried immediately on the hill
where in my youth I used to pass by,
because I want to be a wildflower 
that will be plucked by a child— 
maybe to tuck me behind her ear
or to remove my petals one by one 
while in search of an answer: 
Does he love me, does he love me not.

The poet and the translator of this poem both home from the Bikol region of the Philippines, which has recently been devastated by flooding. Kristian Sendon Cordero’s bookstore and art space, Savage Mind, has been destroyed by the flood. In a region where spaces like Savage Mind are rare, this is a tremendous loss. Kristian is currently running a fundraiser to open Savage Mind once more to the many poets, artists, readers, and like-minded souls from Bikol and elsewhere in the Philippines. If you would like to help, please donate here.