Two Poems

Originals by Luna Sicat Cleto
Translated, from the Tagalog, by Vyxz Vasquez

Before You Leave Me to Sea

Allow me a goodbye
The wick you’ve already ignited
So watch closely & permit
My burning colors wave to you
Then you may offer me
To the current without a fight
At times the wind will carry me
Off to the side & you may
Push me further to the deep
If my flesh is ablaze
Gaze instead at my leaving
Trail of sparks then
Imagine that this night
The light & the line
Are delighted in flames

Bago Mo Ako Ipalaot

Hayaan mo muna akong magpaalam
Sinindihan mo na ang aking mitsa
Kaya’t titigan mo at hayaan mong
Kawayan ka ng naglalagablab kong kulay
At saka mo na ako ialay
Hindi ako manlalaban sa alon
Paminsan-minsan dadalhin ako ng ihip
Patungo sa gilid at maaari mo
Na akong itulak papalayo
Kung nagliliyab ang aking kalamnan
Titigan mo na lang ang papalayong
Buntot ng kuwitis sa langit at
Isipin mo na sa gabing ito
Ang liwanag at ang taludtod
Ay maligayang nagsasanib

“She Forged a Path Where There Was None”

By Leslie Espino

embroidered paper, gouache, watercolor, beads

19.75 x 12 in artwork in 19.75 x 27.75 in frame

Moon Journey

Thanks to Merlie Alunan

I.
You will do what you’re used to:
wipe the tear off the plate, heat lifeless meals
boil the cold rice, listen to the heaving
of fridge lungs. When you tire of it,
spoon coffee and stare at the loss
And wait for the maid caught in traffic.
Meanwhile, the noise again and again
enters your ear, delayed baggage
in the carousel of words. The loud will stop
after the heavy footsteps of a body walking away.
You were caught, Nina
in the false illusion
of becoming a shell in her ocean.

You will enter, as your coccyx greets
the curves of a chair sighing upon your arrival.
Cold is your heat.
Your thumb will feel for the inbox,
as emails fall off
like narra flowers meant to shed.
Surprised you remember the discussions.
The minutes dedicated to the arrest of wayward
ideas. The contracts. Proposal.
Budget.
Bwiset.

How is America? your mother greets on the phone.
She was a stewardess in your youth.
Two hills separated
by the skeleton of bridges and highways get in the way
of your homes.
The distance in lightyears.
Gravity defying is your inaction
in commuting and transiting as a tourist.
The sound of her breathlessness reached you like the news
of a volcano about to erupt.
You foresee her going down the stairs,
the flesh in her knees peeling off like wood shavings
kindling for fire.
Don’t worry, she said.
My gasps are from paint.
It’s because I washed the garage.
You nodded though you didn’t hear.
The wind is beating at the maps of yesterday’s
present skin.

The days of the dead arrive and leave.
No guests. No “I told you so’s.”
The traffic, the potholes, the crowds.
There are many covers for staring at ashes.
It’s not for lack of memory.
How can one forget
when each day one sees grey?
You could smell her breath,
like the dried saliva of lovers.
In the sky, the garage, the kitchen, even in your drinking
water. Burned table, bed. You lie down on coals.
Everyone is sincere, and now you know
why cinders exist.

II.
You wake up remembering
the gentle touch of your finger
and the firm hand
on her shoulder. Something whistles at your spirit.
Arresting you as if you’re a thief.
You are reminded of her eyes
and how
like leaves
you fell into their well.

III.
They say it’s better to die and not be known
and forgotten by life
than to live
dyed and blemished.

You laughed at the proverb read
and wrapped with rice
how the Maranaw cook rice
how they eat in the feast
ending their fast, at the last day of
Ramadan.

How come?
All things are reminders.
All parts of yourself seem to be
a clay jar that has not tasted moss

and now—
receives water.

IV.
Time buzzes
like the wind that makes your hair fly.
You’re the one who had to wear a helmet.
You’re the one who had to signal to leave.
You’re the one who said you’ll go at the same time.

There was no expectation.
There was nothing to ask.
What you only knew then,
was that you wanted to go home.

Yet—
you just noticed,
you prayed for time’s restraint.
Pulling its rope to slow it down
as it burns your hands.

You burst out laughing in the evening.
The one beside you is dead asleep.

V.
It was a new moon then. The shape of your nail,
a piece of yourself also chiseled
when it grows long and snags.

You looked up to the heavens.
It said, its belief is that force is not wrong
or Right. Yes, you said. We also have gods like that.
But they were banished, replaced at the altar by decadent
saints who walk at night and return muddy.

Not once, no memory that you felt this way:
no judgement
no changing of faces, clothing, voice.
Only you. It is enough.
You are twin-fire, a mirror.
The body missed, damned
by the light touch of your finger.

No one will believe nothing happened.
You are not characters.
But mere pieces
of dust scattered
by Whoever It Is.

Lakbay Buwan

Salamat kay Merlie Alunan

I.
Gagawin mo ang mga nakasanayan:
magpunas ng muta sa mga pinggan, mag-iinit ng bangkay na ulam
pakukuluan ang bahaw, makinig sa alingawngaw
ng baga ng refrigerator. Pag nanawa,
magtatakal ng kape’t tutunganga sa kawalan
Aabangan ang pasok ng kasambahay na na-traffic.
Samantala, tuloy-tuloy lang ang pasok
ng tunog sa iyong tainga, mga naantalang bagahe
sa carousel ng salita. Titigil ang tunog,
kasunod ng dabog ng palayong katawan.
Nahuli ka naman, Nina
sa iyong pagkukunwaring
maging kabibe sa kanyang dagat.

Papasok ka, babatiin ng iyong tumbong
ang hulma ng silyang umiingit pa sa salubong.
Malamig ang iyong init.
Sasalatin ng daliri ang inbox,
magkakalaglagan ang mga email
na animo’y bulaklak ng narrang kusang nalagas.
Himalang natatandaan mo pa ang mga napag-usapan.
Ang mga minutong binaling sa mga paghuli ng mga pasaway
na ideya. Ang mga kontrata. Proposal.
Budget.
Bwiset.

Kumusta ang Amerika? salubong ng iyong ina sa telepono.
Stewardess siya ng iyong kabataan.
Dalawang burol na pinaghiwalay
ng kalansay ng mga tulay at highway ang namamagitan
sa inyong inuuwian.
Lightyears ang layo.
Gravity defying ang katamaran
mong sumakay at sumaglit bilang turista.
Nakaabot sa iyo ang tunog ng kanyang hingal na parang balita
ng sasabog na bulkan.
Nakikini-kinita mo siyang bumaba sa hagdan,
pinipigtal ang kalamnan ng tuhod niyang waring tatal
nang parikit sa apoy.
Huwag kang mag-alala, anya.
Ang hingal ko’y mula sa pintura.
Hinilamusan ko kasi ang garahe.
Tumango ka’t alam mong hindi iyon narinig.
Pumipintig ang hangin sa mga mapa ng nakaraang
nagbabalat-kasalukuyan.

Dumating at dumaan ang undas.
Wala nang dalaw. Wala na ring sumbatan.
Ang traffic, ang lubak, ang dami ng tao.
Maraming mga panakip sa pagtitig sa abo.
Hindi naman sa nagkalimutan.
Paano mo ba malilimot
e araw-araw mong nakikita ang abo?
Naamoy mo ang kanyang hininga,
tulad ng panis na laway ng mangingibig.
Sa langit, sa garahe, sa kusina, ultimo sa ininom mong
tubig. Tupok ang mesa, kama. Humihiga ka sa uling.
Senisera ang lahat, at alam mo na ngayon
kung saan nanggagaling ang mga upos.

II.
Gumising kang naaalala
ang dampi ng iyong daliri
at lapat ng kamay
sa balikat niya. May pumipito sa iyong diwa.
Pinatitigil ka na parang may inumit.
Naalala mo ang kanyang mga mata
at kung paanong
para kang dahon
na nahulog sa balon niyon.

III.
Mainam na raw na mamatay na hindi nakilala’t
nalimutan ng panahon
kaysa sa mabuhay
nang may batik.

Natawa ka sa pagbasa ng sawikaing
siningit sa binalot na kanin
ganito magsaing ang mga Maranaw
ganito rin kumain ng pista ang mga
pumipigtal sa gutom, sa katapusan ng
Ramadan.

Bakit ganoon?
Lahat ng bagay ay mga paalala.
Lahat ng bahagi ng iyong sarili ay waring
bangang matagal nang hindi nakatikim ng lumot

at ngayon—
nasasalinan.

IV.
Humuhugong ang oras
gaya rin ng hangin na nagpalipad ng iyong buhok.
Ikaw ang pinasuot niya ng helmet.
Ikaw ang hinintay niyang humudyat ng alis.
Ikaw ang nagsabi sa kanyang sasabay ka.

Wala kang inaasahan.
Wala kang hinihingi.
Ang alam mo lang noon,
gusto mo nang umuwi.

Pero—
napansin mo na lang,
ipinagdasal mong pigilan ang oras.
Hinihila mo ang lubid nito sa haragan
namaltos pa nga ang iyong mga kamay.

Napapahalakhak ka sa gabi.
Himbing na himbing ang iyong katabi.

V.
Bagong buwan noon. Kahugis ang kuko mo,
piraso ng iyong sariling kinakatam mo rin
kapag humaba na’t sumabit.

Tumingala ka noon sa langit.
Ang sabi niya, sa paniwala niya, ang diin ay hindi masama
o Mabuti. Oo, sabi mo. May mga bathala rin kaming ganyan.
Ngunit pinalayas, ipinagpalit sa mga altar ng mga mararangyang
niño na naglalakad din sa gabi’t bumabalik na putikan.

Ni minsan, wala kang naalalang nakaramdam ka ng ganito:
walang paghuhusga
walang pagpapalit-mukha, bihis, tinig.
Ikaw lamang. Sapat na.
Isa kang kambal na apoy, isang salamin.
Nagmintis ang kanyang katawan, nagsalintik
sa dampi ng iyong daliri.

Walang maniniwala na walang nangyari.
Hindi kayo mga tauhan.
Kundi bahagi lamang
ng sinaboy na alabok
ng Kung Sino Man.

Luna Sicat Cleto, born in Pasig, Manila, is a poet, playwright, essayist, and fictionist. Daughter of Rogelio Sicat and Ellen Sicat, both distinguished fictionists in Filipino. She completed her BA in Film and Audio-Visual Communications, MA in Filipino-Panitikan, and PhD Malikhaing Pagsulat at the University of the Philippines Diliman, where is she currently professor at the Department of Filipino and Philippine Literature and fellow at the Institute of Creative Writing. She has won prizes from the Carlos Palanca Memorial Award for her short stories, essays, poems, and stories for children; the Gawad Cultural Center of the Philippines for one-act play; and the Gawad Chancellor para sa Natatanging Likha sa Panitikan from UP. She has two novels, Makinilyang Altar, winner of the Madrigal Gonzalez Best First Book Award; and Mga Prodigal; and a book of poems, Bago Mo Ako Ipalaot. She co-edited, with Rolando Tolentino, Sapantaha: Kalipunan ng mga Kuwentong Spekulatibo at Imahinatibo, among other literary anthologies, and recently released, as editor, Kapag Sumalupa ang Gunita: Mga Piling Journal Entries ni Rogelio Sicat. She is currently the Vice Head of the National Committee on Literary Arts of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts.

Vyxz Vasquez is from the Philippines. She is in the PhD program in Literature at University of California, San Diego and has an MA in creative writing from the University of the Philippines. Her three chapbooks are One Time Big Time (2017), Pensionados (2022), and ⅄O∩ɹS; (2022). She is a proud mother to Sago.

Leslie Espino is a female environmental scientist working at NASA. She uses new and repurposed fiber and paper to make botanical art—imagine storybooks from your childhood but of places and forests that are endangered by climate change. By turning trash into art, Leslie hopes to inspire small lifestyle changes that empower you to rethink waste and to create lasting change. Here featured piece, “She Forged a Path Where There Was None,” was inspired by the women of space who always demonstrated the courage to be first in their fields. Feel free to follow her on Instagram to view her other artwork: @leslieespinoart