~ Kabayan, Benguet
We hold on as long as we can
until the mountain trail swims
like a river of mist before our eyes,
and we know it's time.
Before we close our eyes and leave
the village forever, the shaman brings a drink
in a shell dipper to seal and drain
the body from inside.
Nothing of beeswax or honey must touch
our skin, but salt and stringent herb---
We want to be as parchment that light
can read through and through, high
among limestone rocks. When the last
breath exhales, we step outside and watch them
seat our corpses at our homestead's threshold,
over a low smoldering fire.
A gong's bronze notes weave
a month-long tent as slowly,
we dry and lengthen, limbs folded
and tucked in. Suspended
like this between sky and earth, we sit
like sculptures nested in sweet
pine boxes, waiting for the flower
that blooms only one night a year.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.