By Joseph O. Legaspi
Bitaug, Siquijor, Philippines
Three women dragged the spiky, bulky mass
onto a bamboo table on the side of an island
road. A raised hunting knife glinted in sunlight,
then plunged with a breathless gasp, slicing into
the unseen. To a passerby they were a curious
wall, a swarm of onlookers, barrio children
and younger women, buzzing with a rising
gleeful cadence as a mother busied herself
with the butchering. Surprisingly, a citrusy,
sugary scent sweetened the stranger’s face
when offered the yellow flesh like thickened
petals, licorice to the touch, he stood awed
at the monstrous jackfruit, bloodless armadillo
halved, quartered, sectioned off for feasting.
His tongue tingled ripely. This country’s foreign
to me, he continued, but I’m not foreign to it.
Source: Poetry (July 2017)
More Poems about Activities
I come home,
feet about to bleed
from angry stomping.
“Boy!” says Mom.
“Quit making all that racket.”
But what does she expect
when, day after day,
haters sling words at me
like jagged stones
designed to split my skin?
I retreat to my room,
collapse on the bed,
count, “One. Two....
Nowhere Else to Go
Turn off the lights.
Wear another layer.
(Sounds like a dad.)
(Sounds like a mom.)
You say hand-me-down.
I say retro.
Walk some more.
(See what I did there,
Your name in Sharpie
on a good water bottle.
Backpack. New habits.
No thanks, don’t need a bag.
Tell ten friends