The Pink Planet

I was born in vitro – or "in glass" – to the crystalline spaceship of

disconnection

that was my very own shyness,

only spurred by the monotonous cult of globalization,

for I was raised as much in Manila as I was on the Moon –

in the ivory tower of a higher education that was just as much

my sterile post for observation

of that eye-catching world beyond my window pane.

I was an island girl with an indoor complexion,

taught English first, before her native language, in order to

guarantee a white-collar future that would never come to fruition.

At least not by choice,

for I struck the glass of my enclosure

with the very kaleidoscope I'd spy through

on the darkest nights of the soul,

thus effecting a freedom in scattered sequins. And how the colors

played with the light – twinkling

like the voices of strangers

that one time I snuck away to ride a jeepney in secret,

traversing without destination in sad, thrilling circles

I'll never forget.

How I could even spot purple in the prism,

just like the fluorescent inks on our hundred peso bill, moving

in the hands of fruit vendors seized in bargain – ones I met

on my way to walk the slopes

of a sleeping volcano named Ta'al,

which means true. And blue like the leaves of

sour camias trees I once found on the banks of an industrial creek,

the one behind the old house,

whose roof was painted green – only duller than the

astroturf of my high school sports field.

It was the deeper side of emerald within the Cordillera Mountain Range,

where I was taught by farmers how to husk red rice

without a mill in sight – but with the weight of your body

(good for anchoring suspension).

Though these days I am in soil as much as I am in space. Because the light

keeps on refracting.

And I've found that the colors of combatting shyness,

if anything, are pinkly

like a tied tongue or flushed cheeks

from mispronouncing words in public,

like soft hands learning hard work

or a heel blistered from walking.