Bowed Heads

I WAS ROUSED this morning by the smell of rain, by the pungent aroma of water seeping into the parched earth. My mind was drawn to what flooded the soil of Inang Bayan not too long ago, and by association of ideas this verse blew me wide awake: “Your brother’s blood cries out to Me

On Being Clowdered

My thirties came and went and I hit 40 surprised by the joy of emancipation. I didn’t realize I would welcome it so. The angst of the past decade was gone. Older now, I was no longer constantly asked whether I was pregnant or if we were trying, or if we just didn’t know how to make a baby. I no longer had to suffer the crude jokes and awful comparisons with fertile contemporaries. I relished the freedom of having my own time while my friends were caught up in PTA meetings and sports meets. But my unrequited dream lingered like a spectre and a long-beheld grief. Empty womb, empty arms; subtle, spiking sorrow.