Siquijor

You asked me if I had been to the island
of witches, of shamans, of shapeshifters—

and I had, but only once, but for less than
a day. We rode a tricycle along the dusty

seawall to a waiting motorboat. The waves
were brisk and choppy, but we saw flying fish 

as the municipality came into view. I remembered 
reading about firefly colonies in the molave

trees, and how Spanish explorers thought they 
were on fire. The locals said, be careful. There are

those who can cast their eyes in a long view;
who can send a shiver down your nape and arm

without touching. The sun at the horizon 
sometimes looks as though it refuses

to set. A hand could slip into yours, a shadow
into your faltering steps as you walk.