Written by Mattie Balagat
As with the common flu, we ladle
Chicken soup for our sensibilities,
In heaping aphorisms (CTTO1,
Our nonblasphemous relative).
Why does protest smell of
Smoke and molotov? And prayer,
A vanilla-scented candle?
The remedy, we preach,
Is to admire the sunlight
Filtering softly onto the sala2.
So follows the ending of a blockbuster
Where bullets shoot the antagonist dead,
And hunger sits a footnote to human grit.
Let the narrative be continued without its cast —
Else is a headline thrown away tomorrow.
Why does oust scatter
Rabid dogs howling at dust? And justice
Prolong a gilded melody beyond our grasp?
Retreat: to the wounded Body, stripped to barely human,
By a comment resurrected in glory.
By another crucified with apathy.
We of little faith, barking wildly
From our ivory cages.
Six feet away.
1 Short for Credits To The Owner.
2 Living room (Filipino).