POETRY

P. Santiago
The Man Who Uses His Penis
To Measure The Length Of Things

Home is a forest in the middle of a forest and here, geometry meant

sticks and mathematics meant stones. But there was one man who
never knew the true measure of a man until he found out that his penis
is longer than everyone else’s: not superhuman but thoroughly justified
by fate. He is to become the village’s standard, the basis, the ruler. Is the
bamboo pole long enough? Is the rope to tie together rafts and roofs
long enough? He would stand in the middle of the village for hours,
naked from the waist down, and wait patiently while his neighbors
bring things: banana leaves as notes, vegetables, knives, poles, fabrics,
strings, and many other things. One day, while he leaned forward, his
penis on the table measuring a table cloth, he asked: “Wouldn’t it be
blissful to know that the true measure of a man is, by any chance, how
well he lived, how good he is, how big his heart is?” The villagers went
quiet. The leaves stopped rustling mid-air as if the wind was stunned
by this questioning. And then the villagers laughed. “If we use your
heart to measure the the length of things, why, we’d have to take it
out of you. You’d have to be dead!” The village roared in laughter, the
rustling of the leaves went on and on and on and on and on.

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 POETRY

P. Santiago
Gerald Flies From Nagoya To Manila
To Legazpi As A Woman

No cherry blossoms at the park

the day I left Ikeda like the many afternoons
before it. Perhaps they did, but I never knew:
drowned by neon lights at night, I’d wake up
to the sound of enka heralding my late-night soirees.
Today, I am leaving; the otokos would have to wait.
Their cigarettes, unlit, their sakes half-empty,
their shirts folded and untidy by the bedding,
they all would have to wait until I return;
because many times like last night, home isn’t
the first botan-yuki one morning in January
but the monsoon rains that watered Mama’s
gumamelas, not the smell of men but Mama’s
fresh laundry on Saturdays. I’m flying home with
a face that’s halfway through my natural tan
sans the creams, sans the make-up,
sans the midnight notes from Ichi-san,
an unkempt hair, like a geisha at dawn.

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 BKL/BIKOL BAKLA

Maglalakbay si Gerald Mula Nagoya Papuntang

Maynila Patungong Legazpi Bilang Babae*

Gaya ng marami pang hapong nagdaan, walang

namukadkad na cherry blossoms sa parke
nang nilisan ko ang Ikeda. Meron man,
hindi ko na malalaman: lunod sa nakakasilaw
na liwanag, magigising ako sa saliw ng enka,
hudyat ng simula ng gabi-gabing piging-
aliwan. Ngayon, maglalakbay ako:
makakapaghintay ang mga otoko—walang
magsisindi sa mga sigarilyo, hindi mapupuno
ang sake, ang maruruming damit nakatiklop
sa paanan ng kama. Doon sila mananatili
hanggang sa aking pagbabalik. Sapagkat
tulad ng maraming gabi, sa habagat
na nagdilig sa gumamela ni Mama
pa rin nananahan, hindi sa unang
botan-yuki isang umaga sa Enero.
Hanap ang simoy ng bagong sampay
ni Mama tuwing Sabado,
hindi ang amoy ng mga otoko.
Lilipad akong nangangayumanggi na ang mukha,
walang naipahid, walang habilin si Ichi-san,
nakalugay ang buhok: tila geisha sa bukangliwayway.

*Translated by Leo Fernandez Almero

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