Look Ma, I'm a Writer!

Sat strapped to a chair,
while a man in a mask
brandished instruments of pain.
And pain was indeed inflicted
on the bravest man alive,
with fists clenching in anticipation
at the sound of spinning rotors,
muscles tightening at the
smell of grinding metal,
buttocks rising off the seat
with every touch of
steel blades on bone and tissue.
Yet the bravest man alive
stayed silent throughout the ordeal,
and with one final sound
of breaking bone,
it was all over.
The bravest man alive
smacked his lips
to the taste of blood,
and his tongue could feel
the soft, torn flesh in his mouth
where his front tooth used to be.


*Conceived Saturday, 22 June 2013

It was "Take Your Kid to Work" Day,
and the morning sun reflected
on the little boy's
kiddie-sized aviators
as he rode shotgun
in his father's jeepney.
He was very excited,
and he dressed for it -
a blue ball cap
to match his new blue shirt,
with paper bills sharply
folded around his fingers
like wolverine claws.
He was already in third grade,
yet he had never seen
his father at work,
ferrying passengers around the metro
like the nice man that he is.
All he did was
take the passengers's fare
while his father gave the change,
because the boy didn't know
the different fares
for the different stops.
But he was quite good at math,
this little boy,
and as the sun rose higher in the sky,
he noticed his father
starting to shortchange his passengers.
First 25 cents,
then 50,
then one peso,
then two.
When he looked up
into his father's eyes,
and saw his father
refusing to look back,
the little boy
did not know
what to make of it.


*conceived Sat, 13 Apr 2013

It happened
on his ninth Christmas.

The boy had written
to Santa Claus
and had asked for
a basketball.
But there were no
spherical shapes
under the tree that night.

He examined his present ─
a flat, rectangular box
wrapped in Christmas colors.
He knew it was his, because
it came with a card
from Santa Claus,
addressed to him.

He read the card,
and began to
notice the note's
handwriting; clear
printed letters
slanted at a certain angle,
and the way the letter G
looked like the number 6,
and the way the Z was written
European-style,
with a small bar across it.

Inside the boy's head,
several little worker elves
began turning the cogs,
gears, and wheels
in his brain.
And then the elves
suddenly vanished
in a puff of smoke,
leaving the boy with
a sinking feeling in his stomach,
when he realized that
Santa Claus's handwriting
looked exactly like his mother's.

I took
(care of)
a child
(not my own),
while back home,
my sister took
(care of)
mine.

I did this
for ten years.

Now, my
child calls my
sister: mother,
and calls
me: auntie.


*Inspired by the documentary Kunyang, directed by Vivian N. Limpin and Kat Loreños