A poem by Bino A. Realuyo

Procession

In memoriam, Father Narciso Pico, human rights activist

Air descends in spirals. On a street,
a flock waits, not in their usual Sunday white
but black, a long line, spiraling as well.
Their sweat you can't see.
Their faces would make you wonder what really
matters to them-the wait or the destination,
something you often asked: the now or what comes next.
In this village, whoever dares ask that question
does it in murmurs, in twists of fingers,
like their ears and eyes, attentive to every house
they pass: who still lives there, who doesn't,
what's gone, what remains, their names, mentioned
every time they think of yours.
They recognize the thoughts behind fallen lips,
sunken skin: where does a dead priest go,
the one gunned down for leaves and soil-
tell them, if not, they would simply guess, if there is an
opening in the sun, then there, into its eye, to watch
shovels rise above the ground, your own, the sprinkle
of soil over your casket, of dust, prayers, and names,
once again, the names of those who will fall next to you.


"Bino A. Realuyo has that rare gift of transforming modern horror into art. In The Gods We Worship Live Next Door he writes of his beleaguered country, the Philippines, in ways that reveal universal truths. The land is vibrant and alive, real with mythical shadows-rituals, dances, work-and, at the same time, racked by persecution and death. The book is passionate without a trace of sentimentality, a compelling account of destruction under a silent god."
- Grace Schulman

BINO A. REALUYO was born and raised in Manila. He is the author of the acclaimed novel The Umbrella Country. His poems have appeared in The Kenyon Review, Manoa, The Literary Review, New Letters, and The Nation. He is the recipient of the Lucille Medwick Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America. He lives in Manhattan.