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SKIM THE SHEEN
By Nick Carbo and Eileen Tabios

Let me take your Homonhon shoes on
a tryptic walk through betel nut Avenues

while we listen to ghosts singing
as they skim the sheen of the Abra River.

Let Maria Clara's nape hairs stand
like cormorants by the water

when Gabriela Silang orders, "Stop
flirting. Use your panuelo to bandage a wound."

This is the red W of the sound
of downtown revolutions,

the 21st century opera
bled from faces burnt by noonday suns,

a carapace running down your
logos moons

as you stone clay-footed authors
of history texts: "see Dick run!"

At 388 mph the postcolonial dime
is dying dusty.

I know now what matters most:
the fidelity of your eyes on me

which I cannot step into twice
and be the same sumptuous stare

(you see how even Greeks
crack marble lips to join the fray?).

If only I would dare eat
this eurocentric speech.

But why lapse to bitter needs
when my lips would rather form "Mahal"

and your amber feet turn
into lahar lansones pies.

My love, the mangos have ripened—
throw out that marinade of vinegar and salt.

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