Aleah Sulaiman Bantas

Moamina was the first girl I saw
aaaaaaaasoftly arched brows,
a look you catch
in those brief intervals of movement
aaaaaaaawhen you look too long at someone,
and just stare,
aaaaaaacompelled,
thoughtless, as if
aaaaaaaabeing carried away
aaaaaaaaaaaby the current of an alep river,

the kind where it hasn’t been raining for days on end,
aaaaand the water runs cool at your feet,
watching pebbles settle in the shallows—
aaaaaaaaaweathered, polished smooth.

How you call a river twice:
aaaaaaaafirst in your tongue alep,
then again river,
aaaaato remind yourself
it must flow
 aaaaa somewhere.

Her frown and smile
aaaaamerge, soft creases forming
aaaaaaaaat the corners of her lips,
aaaaaaaaaaforehead,
aaaaaassssssdd& cheeks.

What I wanted to say
was her eyes were the certain virtue of stillness—
the ease I could have held onto,
    like holding a tasbeeh
          to which I recite,
mouthing forgiveness.

I remember her voice trailing off,
half-breath,
the sound of sleep and distance
aaaaaprayers dissolving,
aaaaaaaaaaaa steady cadence.
blending into the ripple of water.

Her kindness was the first
dddI understood,
next to wanting.

When she was near,
aaaaI forgot
aaaaaaawhat anger meant.

Sandrah Maas Saudagal

Pedsilep su Bumba

Sinugo ako ni ina—
Penggagas ako kun sa lempay
Mapya man e kapenggagas sa lempay
Nambay panggulan ko sa walay

Lu ako penggagas sa bumba
Ugayd sublay kapasangin
Pelapitin pon—
kagina pedsilep.

Pusakagay a pelapitin pon
Pakapatay sa oras.
Diya ko ren penggagas—
Pakasakit a benal sa ginawa.

Kagina su bumba namin antu,
pagkatuwa ren sya sa dunya
Masu magan den pebpatay
Ugayd a kagamit pon.

Su ig a pelyo sa bumba,
na keynom pon.
Malingaw bon.
Uged a ampon ka bon.

Niya importante—
Aren pon guna nin
Pakawyag bon sa taw
Pakeynom kami bon.

Hinihigop ang Poso

Inutusan ako ni inay—
Maghugas daw ako ng plato
Ang saya talaga maghugas ng plato
‘yan ang gawain ko sa bahay.

Doon ako naghuhugas sa poso
Ngunit tila naging komplikado—
kailangan pang pwersahin nang todo.
Dahil nga hinigop ‘to.

Napakatagal, kailangan pang pwersahin
Nakakaubos ng oras
Hindi na ‘ko maghuhugas

Nakakainis

Dahil ang bomba naming iyon,
ay tumatanda na sa mundo.
Tila malapit nang bawian ng buhay
Ngunit napapakinabangan pa rin

Ang tubig na lumalabas sa poso
ay naiinom pa rin,
malinaw pa rin
ngunit iyong ipagpaumanhin.

Ang mahalaga,
mayroon pa ring silbi,
nakakabuhay pa rin,
nakakainom pa rin kami.

filter: 0; fileterIntensity: 0.0; filterMask: 0; hdrForward: 0; brp_mask:0;
brp_del_th:null;
brp_del_sen:null;
delta:null;
module: photo;hw-remosaic: false;touch: (-1.0, -1.0);sceneMode: 2;cct_value: 0;AI_Scene: (-1, -1);aec_lux: 0.0;aec_lux_index: 0;HdrStatus: auto;albedo: ;confidence: ;motionLevel: -1;weatherinfo: null;temperature: 28;

Hameeda L. Linog 

Like a Green Tendril

Like a green tendril—
a beautiful, creeping vine against pale skin—
my vein climbs from my lower wrist
up towards the palm of my hand, whispering:

“I know of the fate written along these lines.
I know every twine and every twisted strand.
I bring tidings to your heart.”

“But there is hesitance
in your pulse—in your very being.
You distrust a heart
that beats you into living. Live!”

The night thickens
with a buzzing noise in my ear.
My skin becomes paler
as all rhythms falter.

Blood spatters and spills on the cold tiles.
My hand loses its grip.

Holiness in Surrender

Give me a soft word
and make me an idiot again.
Make me submit—hands on my knees,
lap folded, eyes lowered.

Steal my breath,
because only with you
do I come alive again.
I come alive again!

How is it that I find worship
in complete surrender?
How is it that I come alive
by being unmade?

Darling, allow me to bleed—
—and then to bloom beneath.
Give me voice
where there is none.

With you,
I become whole in pieces.
And that—
that I would call holy.

Norsalim Haron

Nangalimud silan ku padsudan nu walay ningka
Bagagayan ku bangko ku kasangulan nu malendo a lamisan
Pegkapi, pegkan sa pan, pedsebung
Belabiten nilan su langon’u kapiyanan ningka
Ugayd seka anya a bagiga ku manaot a katre
Bangalingkakep ko liliw nu ikam
Sa mana ka bon pedtindeg sa sambayang
Nalibet kana masla palanggana
A napenu na matenggaw a ig
A ibeligo salka
Mana bon kanu timpo a bago ka ginemaw
Ku kapebpaigo ni ina nengka salka
Uman ka gawasa na ig na belesik ka bagulyang
Ugayd saguna uman ka pembubuwan
Na pakauliyang su mga suled-pagali nengka
Kagina niya den ba su mawli a kabpaigo nilan salka

Bath

They gathered in the yard of your house
Sitting on a bench in front of a long table
Drinking coffee, eating salt bread, chatting.
They recount all your good deeds
Yet you lie there on a small bed
Wrapped by the surface of a mat
As if you are standing in prayer.
You are surrounded by huge basins
Filled with cold water
For your bath.
Much like when you were just born
When your mother bathes you
Each splash of water pushes you to cry more.
But now, every pour
Makes your relatives cry
Because this is the last time they will bath you.

—Translated by Nurmina Abdul

Laurehl Onyx B. Cabiles

Riding four borrowed habal-habal, high school boys skipped class
one sunny afternoon, traversing the outskirts of their town, passing
old trees, rough roads, and lonely houses before reaching Manili:
people were circling around the drivers even the women
wearing hijabs were present. They stopped
on a hundred-meter-long concrete road, hearing
the roar of the engines from the modified motorcycles.
The street was filled with exclamations of the crowd, joined
by the teenagers, when the motors dashed
to the finish line. They went home right after, driving
as fast as the racers, bringing this story home

Inside a cramped-up room with three double-deck beds, during
the beginning of the presidency of Marcos Jr., a boy
from that Manili trip will be a bed-spacer in that rented
space in his college years at USM, accompanied
by his Maguindanaon friends. Some nights, when the schedule chooses
to be kind, at a dinner table, little gatherings will arise:
from asking about the Quran to bartering half-truths
and inherited beliefs, stepping into each other’s world, bridging
the gap, then the topic will sway to the horrors they heard
and saw, moving from local to foreign, spanning
through the present and the past, from Kabacan to Gaza
to Congo, zooming back in Palimbang
In Manili, on June 19, 1971, when our country was still
in the grip of Marcos Sr., a meeting should have happened,
but the Ilaga threw grenades inside a mosque, slaughtering
more than seventy innocent people, turning
the place for showering of blessings into a bloodbath.
And even when they buried the dead on the next day
for the ones who will carry the memory, after
those gruesome hours, scenes of body parts sticking
to the ceiling and fellow survivors wading along
through knee-deep of warm blood to find pieces
of their loved ones among the submerged will be engraved
in their minds. The place and their memories wait for the boy

But right now, the boy is with his friends in front
of the store where they always hang out, obliged
to listen to his buddy’s stories, who is painting
his grandfather as a mythical figure, whose skin
cannot be penetrated by bullets, or guns would not even fire
at him because of his anting-anting, and using only a sundang
to eliminate his targets. As the clouds eat the moon, the friend’s
tales continue  like the telenovela Ang Probinsyano while
the boy is still glued to his spot