the world is many-walled

the world is many-walled

amber b. garma

once, i asked a well-traveled man which parts of the country he still wished to see. the walls, he said to me:

mavulis in the north, where a seven-sunned flag has risen,
and balabac, where an old man’s tungkod strikes the sea

a well-traveled man has nothing else to wish to see but the walls.

this country is many-walled, i think to myself

when i lay on my mattress,
flat and frameless on a cold concrete floor,
even my ceiling feels like
mavulis in the north

even claveria by seven-hour bus
stays a pipe dream
no different from hinatuan,
an eternal mystery

i think of the places
that have walled me in
— stunned me to silence
in my smallness

of the low slopes that stood
in the sunset’s way
at capitaguan cove
on the 13th of may

of the split cliffs
in almost-apocalyptic pinatubo
where we must have looked like
the ants of ants

of the loam colored quarries
that lined the cavite expressway
my smallness raging,
over what grand thing
they had to have drilled away

the world is many-walled, i think to myself

when the money runs out
and Mayon escapes from view
i return
to what concretes wall me
what turns gray from blue

i feel coved in,
and quarried through
by the little i live on
and the lot left to do

by the rush of time

and the rotting
of beauty

by futile escapes
from many-walled
cities

but my ceiling hangs above me
like a sea
of clouds

my closet stands by me,
guarded by goddesses
and held up by giants

and balabac at the end
of a sick old man’s life,
still holds him up
in spite of the sea

the world feels many-walled
at twenty three

but a well travelled-man
considers me lucky
to have many walls still to see