Swamps

 

If dad could turn into a feather furor,

under the melting

sun stares cauterized by the yester-letters

 

of history, my dad would still be the long

uh-oh sound

of all untrodden wetlands

 

warbling for a mother roost. And now

 

the dumaras3 conquer this land,

what the heck,

what the quack! What aches the space?

 

I wish dad were here tilling the nouns

of greater yolked fellows:

uninterpreted swamps and Mt. Arayat.

 

Birdwatchers bird-watching

under the rambutan tree—

 

and then the beast of history,

my dad after some crumbs of memory.