poetry

Malapascua
by Carlos L. Luz

There are no more thresher sharks in Malapascua.
They hunted down the last one, chopped off its fin
And made a rich broth out of it, to be served
To the delight of some wrinkled Chinese mistress
Who would slurp it to its last nurturing drop
From a chipped white porcelain bowl.

There are no more coral forests in Malapascua.
One by one, death has snatched them from her gentle waters
With thunderclaps unleashed from dumb bottles of gin.
All for a hefty catch and a burning drink to warm the body
Against the night’s chilly wind, and the poor fisherman’s
Birthright is irrevocably lost for a few miserable pesos.

There are no more white sand beaches in Malapascua.
What remains is a weary stretch of shore that weeps
Black fetid blood – the shame of locals who close
Their eyes and turn their heads, while powerful white men
Seize their land and seduce their women, stuttering
Their names when their tongues stiffen to call them.

Yet an old Englishman awaits on her shores
The gingerly steps of the woman who kissed
His body with teeth and clinging nails,
And in the dead of night, flung open the door
     And left him, releasing a jagged lightning
From the endless shimmer of his aquamarine dream.

     Now he drowns his thin lungs with cheap rum
     While creeping gangrene eats away his toes,
And snickering children plant thin crosses beside his head
     As he slumbers on Malapascua’s memory-laden sand.

back to poetry | home