Provincial Yearning

1. It must be imposing to dwell in the soil. Perhaps, if writing about my birthplace, this province, where they raised me, where I discovered to breathe, where I am soiled to many promises.
2. ‘Our families are tied with farming. We’ve been farming as far as I can remember,' Nanay said when I asked her one day, and her eyes were glittered with gentle notice.
3. Farming. Such unearthing.
4. Our ancestors have cultivated the land—rice, corn, tobacco, and anything the weather sings—we birth to them.
5. I felt the moving of air, the wild grass, blades on my foot, and another layer of scent in my nose.
6. It's the season of duhat (a local Philippine fruit that is available during March to June), and of course, this is a poem.
7. That late afternoon aesthetic, we carried a large tote bag. That scent of bees—swathes and stings, I saw them tracing the tree. Imagined them as an actual choir. They never have to guard the tree as they loom for chance. The wind retorted with a soft melody of freshness. I waved the long stick to wake the tree, swung it for the third time, fourth, fifth—and there was rain, but with a fruit coming down at my face. Then, I started to pick them, gather them in one place, most were untouched, and some were broken, with flesh bleeding—and I always love that feeling. My nephew ate the duhat, not even ripe, but chose to smile and wince. I am jealous for that.
8. I felt lighter today.
9. Is it because I yearn for this aloneness, or is it because I am really that sad, or is it because it’s happening to me already. The mystery of calm, but this emptiness floods me.
10. Nanay loves spending her time with our old radio, so the Ilokano drama serenades our small abode.
11. What certainly annoys me is that she sleeps with the radio on, and that night I couldn’t concentrate on the book I was reading. There were voices from the radio that intrigued me. To set this frustration away, I tiptoed and silently went inside, and I slightly pulled down the volume.
12. These huge leaves at my wooden window, likely telling me—it’s nice to be lonely and do nothing.
13. Banana leaves are the loneliest creature on earth. I tried to convince myself.
14. From jeepney to home, my coin purse gashes his wide opening like solely expecting something in return.
15. Tatay lifted the casserole, it’s time to eat and Nanay repeats, again, it's time, then softly with a tone through our mother tongue. A rendition and repetition of reminding when the food is all there—I can see. I always liked the taste of sardines who swim for tomato sauce. This is a comfort food, sardines mixed with Baguio cabbages. The oil turns and reels to itself, enjoying the delight of variety.
16. I wish I could cook very well the way my Lola tells me to.
17. Some days, I want to become a garden hose.
18. Some days, I want to become the deepest roots—intermingling our land.
19. Some days, I want to cry like the white liquid from papaya—so pure.
20. Some days, I want to propagate this plant.
21. Dipping seconds, Nanay’s garden, and a pot of bougainvillea. Soft benevolent bracts as they entirely endure the full sun. Flower days or flower weeks to linger to last. Alone on long stems, flourish was heavily painted. Stifling variegated leaves, you must stay recurrent and conscious. Displays of attar, few will wane in the corroded time, and still the insects—seep closely, in a way to live.
22. More and more I yearn for something I can't even hold. Less and less, I become immune to where I belong.

joefel Bolo

Joefel Bolo is a queer writer from the Philippines. Their work has appeared in The Harvard Advocate, beestung, DIALOGIST, Ouch! Collective, and Stanford’s Mantis, among others.