The calamansi pulp from your childhood
overripens itself by the next dreamy morning.
Flat-footed boy
runs down
the ancestral stairs.
Inay grips her arthritis
from the wet market,
(always in the two platinum hours
before an always great lunch)
thinks of sinigang,
but settles for the Knorr packet.
Inay calls him
to help her peel the shrimps,
the serrated helm
the segmented shells
all into the boiling pot.
He calls Inay
from high above the steps.
He barrels down—doesn’t flinch
(he is circumcised now after all,
watched the whole bloody affair
just to brag about)
from the spot where he broke
his metatarsals
where Inay fell
a few times.
And in his flights
of some greater feature
with cheeks vitally plump,
(but stern impatience perhaps)
she guides his hand
over the downy the bloody flesh
kamote leaves of tomatoes
from the spoiled pile,
as he recognizes, together,
what can be saved.
Rigel Portales is a self-taught Filipino poet afraid of disappearing. Fortunately, his works have appeared on the Oyster River Pages, Ghost City Review, and on his Twitter account @rijwrites where he writes to preserve and preserves to write. His biggest inspirations are his impenetrable sister and his beautiful parents.