The Builders
They wait for jeepneys in unassuming
corners leading to narrow streets where
towers slowly rise above the foliage of
mangroves. Inside they horse around like
teenage boys while discussing the excitement
of going home to their families. While on a
standstill, they whistle past at a colleague who
borrows between bumpers in his bike in order
to leave Mandurriao sooner. On their laps, deflated
knapsacks with barely anything; no helmets,
power tools, or steel toe boots. The builders of
this city often travel light, if one sees them at all.
The Fire
It came from dried grass, extreme heat in
the past weeks killing everyone’s interest
in when and how exactly the first spark
happened. The image seared into people’s
minds was how it got so close to the parked cars,
to cafes and to hotels. Stalks turned into embers
in the open lot reminding the inhabitants how
the city grew by one parcel of land at a time.
Scent of the moist earth in the aftermath haunted
by surviving fauna fleeing in the concrete in
search of remaining pockets of shade and peace.
Eric Abalajon’s works have appeared in Plumwood Mountain Journal, Tripwire: a journal of poetics, Modern Poetry in Translation, Firmament Magazine, and Mānoa: A Pacific Journal of International Writing. His debut poetry collection is forthcoming from FlowerSong Press. He lives near Iloilo City.