Holy Iron

I was a teen-ager when my Grandma 
took me to task for this ministry of 
well-pressed pants. Why should I dislike, she asked, 
the long preparation to gather the
leaves of bananas, light the coals, set them in
the flat iron? 

To patiently wait as I fan them ‘til 
the heat is right, ready for the smoothing?
And there is a method to this ritual, 
she said: You start with the pleats
and pockets 

and make your way to the cuffs.
Follow the 
rhythm as you hold the pants 
on the board  — 
fold, press, back  to the dock, fold
press, and back 
again. If you mind yourself 
long enough, 
it resembles the sound 
on Good Friday 

of penitents passing. There is a small 
pail of water to soften the textile, starched, stiffened, and baked.
You dip your fingers 
a bit and bless the  fabric. She had more things to say: the scent of burnt leaves
reminds her of monks praying. The clothes make 
the man, I know, but Grandma taught, the soul, 
vain, reckless, is mastered in the pressing.

Some deaths stay with us

Oh, I will never forget Palomo,

black-spotted Dalmatian who came every

now and then to bark and get some viand

leftovers before lunch as he goes to

market; he'd do a few tricks for us like

stand on his hind legs, pretend his human.

He's someone else's dog really but he

pays us a visit like the friend who comes

for coffee to share some thoughts on a bit

of politics, history,  relations,

except that he's a dog.  Until one day

somebody rushed to the house, "Palomo's

been poisoned!" Palomo walked to our yard,

he's making strange noises, his mouth dripping

with bubbles, and he looked at us as if

begging us to do something. Someone said 

make him drink Coke with sugar. My Grandpa

obliged, held Palomo by his neck and

poured the concoction on his mouth, but poor 

Palomo laid down sideways on the ground.

My Grandpa wept as he held Palomo,

who took his last breathe shortly. I touched his

soft fur to say goodbye. Wet eyes staring

on blank space.  Ah, this happened 40 years

ago; I sob like t'was this afternoon.

Dose

Nung araw, nagtayo kami ng team

Iba’t-iba ang pinanggalingan:

Probinsyano, batang squatter, rich kids

Pandak, matangkad, payat, mataba

Problema lang, lahat kami point guard.

Pag-hawak ng bola, dribble, dribble, 

tuloy tira basta maka-shoot lang.

Ay! Walang panalo kahit isa.

Ngunit minsan dumating si Coach Jay.

Marami siyang itinuro sa’min.

Gumaling kami. Natatalo rin

pero iba. Kung baga sa pan de

sal, tinama niya ang mga sangkap

harina, tubig, pampaalsa at 

asin. Minasa ng katamtaman.

Kaya kami yumabong, nagbigay

ng lakas, ‘di lang sa amin mismo,

pati na rin sa mga kalaro.

Isang gabi bigla siyang hinuli 

ng mga sundalo, rebelde raw.

Isa sa aming dose rin pala

ang nagsumbong. Ang balita namin

pinatay siya sa bundok kasama

ng mga magnanakaw. Subali’t

anuman ang sabihin nila ay

pinagmamalaki namin siya at 

maski kailan ay hindi namin siya

malilimutan. Mula noon ay

palagi naming inaalala

sa kahit anong gawain, mapa-

laro, trabaho, o pagsasanay: 

Sino sa atin ang gaganap sa 

papel ng minamahal na Coach Jay?