Grandmother tells of a summer morning
in the mid-forties—just after
the Second World War.
She was newlywed.
An Aeta tribesman descends
to her town of Oton in Iloilo
and knocks on her door.
He peddles death and desire
in one vial for one peso.
She haggles to fifty centavos.
He replies,
“But that’s too little, Inday,
as this is already too much
of a good thing. Or things.”
Mumbling, he leaves
with his merchandise
for other prospects,
and she returns
to her chores.
At dusk, another rapping:
No takers in town
for a little bottle
of strange bedfellows—
even if it’s only one peso.
And so, fifty centavos
settles the day-long match.
She carries her peculiar trophy
to the medicine cabinet,
but it slips her hand,
scatters into pieces on the floor.
She sweeps shards, wipes spill.
Tells herself she needs no potions,
and smiles for she is newlywed.
