Was it Tigaon or Goa, when you said
as I drove past military men,
that it’s okay for men to look Neanderthal
so long as they’re in uniforms, guns and all?
or was it Camalig, en route to Legazpi
when you pulled down the windows
and said, “men with skin the color of pinangat,
are gorgeous pieces of specimen: creamy and dark.”
or was it Paracale, on the way to Calaguas
when a street vendor who sells pineapples:
the one with that lush head of jet-black hair
sends your heart up in the sky, high in the air?
It was all these instances, perhaps, I murmured to myself.
I subtly submitted to the pangs of jealousy
So dark, so deadly, that one day, I drove with my mind adrift
with you next to me as I drove the car off a cliff,
and you said, while mid-air,
“it was you all along: the one I loved the most.”