At dinner you heap rice, spoons operating on carefully
calibrated destinies. People you live with
stroll in—the son in his school uniform, the mother
who takes only warm water, the prodigal father on a business trip.


I recall how you shouted Imelda’s
name, that murderer, the witch
Imelda Marcos! littering children’s
blood so the bridge may live.


As my father peels his jacket away, takes his seat,
slices meat with hushed incisions, I feel my eyes
stretching like myths. I see fruit scattered in ruins.
I think I am ready to believe you.