Balik-Tanaw

Preceding the Name of a Body CARL HASON GERALE

I know him—

Sat tightly on every panihapon And listened to the table talk about Their gods and religion, Their principles on a platter. Of it, he took a stiff spoonful And for him, that meant something: Same skin and blood—same knowing.

He told me of his straw spine, How he let the passing winds name it After chinawares and the act Of propping it between the shoulder Of a friend and a shoulder Of a friend as we’re both Sprawled on our bedroom floor.

That night, he entrusted me our body To know the spaces under our bones, And how they can stand when bundled. And as he pieced me from the fragments Of our youth—every tear and tears, He watered my crown, and laid in my arms.

Consider No Mercy HEZRON PIOS

Did you think of a mob dance, a protest versus hitmen in the shadows? If we chain our hands tight we’d be electric perhaps.

So tell me, how should I wake you up?

Three fingers in the likeness of Katniss. The television tells us of news leaving a sour aftertaste: men in gray blue, men

disposed like cheap tetra packs. It’s just the same channel—same changes. Even the finest heroes who once ousted Macoy

still exist years after That Day. Here’s my proposal: plant your feet on the streets so that the Word will be the language

of the masa. Mountains must crawl elsewhere while the skies burst in colors to tease apocalypse. Chants

reciting the names of slain advocates would jolt Bacolod and a city kissing another city. Then, the whole nation.

So tell me, how do we pardon the yawa?

We’re past such fickle hashtags, past retweets and tedious threads that can barely do enough. Unless the clowns

turn themselves in, blood stays nonnegotiable. We will sport hope like a pair of wings. Tomorrow, reclamation.

ART BY CARL HASON GERALE