Amianan, Abagatan*

In summer, when I crack 
the windows open, sometimes
I imagine the night jasmine 
pulling threads of scent 
from far away. 

It's been years 
since my mother put the Virgin 
in my hand and closed her fingers 
around mine, wishing me good
journeys: my dark, palm-sized  
plaster Madonna, in a skirt 
belled and blue. 

Fade of gold
crowning her head, one of
dozens on the sidewalk 
at the entrance  to the church 
in Antipolo, sold with prayer beads 
and vials of blessed oil. 

Humid winds blew 
across the water, stirring 
the breadfruit trees. Like 
the galleon El Almirante, they 
could billow a sail across the sea.


* North and South, in Ilocano