tonight, six years ago - it felt like ten, or twenty - you took me to your father's milk fish ponds by the lake of laguna. the silver of the backs of the fish flashing like whetted knives skimming the brackish water.
i don't recall now why we chose to get away from the parties of manila and took as fun, instead, this walking wobbly upon the bamboo stilts over the smelly ponds, the fish below splashing slimy water against our flip flops. all i remember is your promise, the uncountable abundance of your love. like fish roe, mahal, you said.
tonight, here in central park, i am walking with this man, voluble just like you. we sit on a rock still warm from this afternoon's sun. and for a moment there, this jabbering man just clams up and just looks at the reflections on the pond of tall, cold buildings on the west side. and i thrill at at the thought that in this pond, there are hardly any fish.
