Baguio— In Malcolm Square that January we stood
among others dressed in bright (not sickly) yellow:

yellow t-shirts, bandannas, visors; and waited
in the streets for the slain senator’s widow

and her retinue. Nervously we scanned the faces
in the crowd— who was friend? informer? potential

traitor?— so previously unaccustomed to being
this publicly exposed. But here among soldiers in drab

and camouflage, police on foot with megaphones, light
rain starting to fall— none among those gathered

thought to leave. Evening had fallen when a wave of sound
came down the avenue— her name a chant on everyone’s lips,

her sign raised in the chilled air by five thousand hands: L
for Laban (Fight). The future a rift, a hope that suddenly electrified.


In response to Via Negativa: Repressed memory syndrome.

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