I am the dream that flickers beneath the eyelids/of the child who wakes then names the events/that unfold. ---From “What You Don’t Always See” by Luisa A. Igloria, Via Negativa, 07-27-11
We were running through rice fields, abuelo,
some of us flying our bamboo-ribbed kites:
then a billowing red cloud burned my serpent
kite, its long tail falling by the river bank. Aiee!
What wild wind would wander this way? Why?
It was like a huge face, a very angry face? Why?
Its scowl and its roaring laughter made us all
scamper, hid under mango trees laden with fruit.
They kept on hitting us, the falling fruit bombs,
and then there was this big blue bird cackling,
its quivering beak raised to the darkened sky,
sounding like grandmother yelling: Callate!
We would pipe down and hear her protest:
Quiet, quiet! Your grandfather must sleep.
Would I get my kite back again? I am afraid,
abuelo, but I want to go back to that dream,
rebuild my broken kite, bathe in that river,
look for the blue bird that scolded the sky.
---Albert B. Casuga
Abuelo – grandfather; Callate!—Keep quiet!