Kota Batu

Eunice Andrada

Miag-ao, Iloilo, Panay Island
 
We did not see the perfect yolks spill from the river
into the straits. Leftovers from building their churches
of limestone and egg whites. How the thousands
of golden pupils must have stared back.

Or the oil that flooded the mangroves and changed
the harvest forever. Hair trimmings from salon floors
across the islands: swept up and sent in cargo loads.
Black soaking in the black. 

Perhaps it was a blessing not to see the image
of dead women drifting face down, their hair undulating,
soft pollutants. Still the fruit from Guimaras bloats
with putrid nectar. If you held the land inside you,

you would become the land: sick.
Fruitbats fly to the forests of Antique.
The weavers fly to Hong Kong.
The last binukot dies.

This is where we observe who comes to take
and who leaves alive. From our monument of rain
trapped in coralline, we watch the nightboats sever
the water, release the cruelty it cannot hold.