Author: Luisa A. Igloria

I will live alone
at some point—circled by grass
and trees, hum of bees. 
I can only hope for such
grace, if not absolution.

Some days I am lint
stuck to every coat pocket.
Some days I find change
to feed the laundry machine,
when I had no higher ambition.

What word lives inside
me that will last all season?
The birds say listen.
I haven’t learned to be brave,
to trust the undulations.

On a northern island
lashed constantly by typhoons,
houses built with stone.
Withstand could be its motto.
Abide could be another.

This is the spot where
the year begins to fold back
into itself. Sharp
crease in the middle. Vellum
through which we glimpse the future.

We ask for patatas bravas, buñuelos 
de bacalao; manchego cheese and honey.
We ask for jamon serrano,  champiñones 
al ajillo, pan con tomate. Small plates, easy 
to finish when shared with friends. Rhetorical
question: why do I find the foods of my first 
colonizer delicious? Ordinary fare: steamed
swamp spinach, fried scad, rice. Delicious,
especially eaten without silverware, but not 
served to guests or at parties. Our tongues, 
taught to swerve from the language of our 
origins. Taught to soften the trills 
that might remind us of birds.

You begin to smell it everywhere—
the burn like sugar gone past the candy 
stage in a pan. And then rubber tires 
soften against the curb. You could make 
a furrow in the road's asphalt as though 
it were a cake top spread with buttercream. 
Metal pins curve into glossy punctuation 
marks. Every exposed mirror empties its
pocket of frozen water. Stop signs fuse 
red, green, and yellow. If all of us jumped 
into a public pool, we'd bob like eggs
heated through to our jammy centers, 
crying out for an ice bath. 

As we round the corner to the end of June, 
the forecast has the full moon reaching 
its peak and Mercury slowing down. 
In many stories, the moon wears a face 
you could read if it revealed itself to you. 
This doesn't necessarily mean you'd ask it 
to grant a wish. I never wanted to live forever, 
though I did often dream I could fly. The moment
a thing manifests is often followed by the moment
it fades. This is why sometimes, you never 
want to wake up from a dream.
 

In a dream, two of my daughters sit in a box
frame house the size of a sky lantern. They are going
to bring a plate of purple figs to God, freshly picked 
yesterday and cold from the refrigerator. I hold
the bottom steady, waiting for the lit birthday candles
to fuel the paper envelope surrounding them 
and the moment of lift-off. I want to be useful.
I want them to succeed. I want them to soar
through the night sky holding hands but unafraid.
I want to watch the marvel of their progress, 
a gold thread steadily stitching the blue. There
they go, floating with every good wish in
the wind. I don't mind the cold in these dark
hills, nor the crows full of bluster in the trees.

For all the times I believe better
to ask forgiveness instead of permission.

For the times I break the quiet,
and all the times I refuse to speak.

For plucking fruit still jacketed in green
just to cut it open and prove it has a heart.

For pressing my eager hand on the glass 
and lifting the ropes, despite the warnings.

For all the times I mean no but 
my mouth, this body, says yes or maybe.

For thinking the world is always willing to help, 
rather than lying in wait as an orange sunrise.

For the hours I let grief eat from my hand
and the nights I pray for sleep so when I wake

everything stretched to near breaking 
will return to its unbroken self. 

*

P.S.: I woke up to this beautiful translation into Ilocano 
of my poem, by Baguio-based poet, scholar, translator 
and artist Junley Lorenzana Lazaga. I have his permission 
to share it here on Via Negativa. Agyamanac unay, Junley!

Daniw kas Pammakawan iti Uniberso
(Poem as Apology to Universe by Luisa A. Igloria;
translated by Junley Lorenzana Lazaga)


Para kadagiti amin a panawen nga ad-adda nga italekko 
ti kumiddaw iti pammakawan imbes a pammalubos. 

Para kadagiti amin a kanito a ti talna, binurakko,
ken amin a kanito a nagkedkedak nga agsao. 

Para iti panangpuros iti bunga a naganus pay laeng a silalangto
tapno laeng iwaek a luktan ken paneknekan nga addaan iti puso.

Para iti panangigaedko iti imak iti sarming
ken panangitag-ay kadagiti galut, iti laksid dagiti ballaag.

Para kadagiti amin nga oras a kayatko a sawen ti saan
ngem dagiti bibigko, daytoy bagik, nangbalikas iti wen wenno amangan. 

Para iti panangpanunot a ti lubong ket kanayon a sisasagana a tumulong,
imbes nga agtalinaed laeng nga agur-uray a kas iti maris-kahel nga ileleggak ti init. 

Para kadagiti oras a ti leddaang, isubbuak a mangan 
ken kadagiti rabii nga agkararagak para iti pannaturog tapno iti iririingko

amin a mabinnat nga agarup maburak
ket agsublida iti bagida a di-naburak.


Prof. Junley Lorenzana Lazaga, holds the distinction of being 
the first in the University of the Philippines Baguio to be conferred 
the title of UP Artist. He currently serves as an associate professor 
in the Department of Language, Literature, and the Arts, where he 
has served for over fifteen years in various academic and administrative 
leadership roles,  including directing public affairs during the height 
of the COVID-19 pandemic. He writes in Ilokano, Filipino, and English, 
and also translates between these languages. He is the recipient 
of a UP Baguio Golden Jubilee Award (2021), One UP Faculty Grant 
Award (2016-2018, 2019-2021), and One UP Professorial Chair 
Award (2022-2024).