On the sixth floor of the Metro,
I unravel puso: diamond shaped weaves
of coconut leaves, revealing rice tainted
slightly green, squished but delicious.
We all eat with our fingers, dip crunchy
lechon belly into brown sauce, glossed in fat.
I almost pass out from how good and sweet
the cassava cake tastes, yellow and sticky, firm
yet gelatinous. Sometimes, my uncle and I digest
in calm silence, watching more Filipinos fill vendor lines.
Other times, we discuss the divine, the purpose
of life, the energy of a soul—indestructible. I bring
up my mother, her passing, more than once. I want
to consume his understanding of God’s grace,
the afterlife, what sin and forgiveness mean.
I mean, I must be empty somewhere, if I am asking.
Like anything, though: ebb and flow. Satisfaction
and then hunger again. The jeepney we ride: bobs
in traffic—bodies slide and shift, pesos get passed
to the driver, change back again, palms on poles,
exhaust fumes billow, the man in front of me
pops back peanuts into his muscular jaw. I’m in awe
of it all. What we take to go:
not just leftovers, bones of the pig. I find shreds
of myself reflected in the plastic plate, ube cake boxed
and ready, spongey purple slices, crumbling.
