campo santo
back home, the spirits sing in the trees.
across the road, branches hang like weeping women.
who sweep the leaves, even when the winds howl.
it is November & all of Tanauan gathers in its own mouth.
to wet the ground with our melted wax. we swing
the sundang & clear the weeds arching across our uncles’
graves. scrub coffins with cracked coconuts.
brush the mangled vines & debris with gihay ribs
our backs cradled in sweat. until our mamas signal
enough with the pointing of their lips. & our 10-year-old
limbs hop-scotch across stacked cement coffins.
play tag with the ghosts who carry our middle names,
beneath the moon, we greet each mano with quick genuflection
or out-of-breath rest in peace, po until the mosquitoes
fill the holes in our pants & we return to our mothers.
who braid the sticky hairs out of our faces. we stand still
for all of one rosary bead. the white handkerchiefs tucked
into our collars, now lost in the holy mud of this cemetery.
as we chase the steam of boiling peanuts. race the unlit path
to our family’s resting place. here, we learn to make peace
with the dead’s song.