Schmuckumentary

Araw-araw,
we line up
like utensils in a drawer—
nested, used,
polished by repetition.

Tissue. Tray. Kanin. Ulam.
A sequence of survival.

Sa whiteboard
kung saan binubura ang bukas
at sinusulat ulit every week:

Monday: Tinola with papaya
Tuesday: Chicken adobo
Wednesday: Nilagang baboy (too much luya)
Thursday: Pochero/afritada
Friday: Ginisang munggo
or something we’ll complain about
but still swallow.

Comforting din malaman
kung anong papasok sa katawan mo
before the afternoon eats you.

Some ulam we love.
Some ulam we resent.
Some ulam tastes like us—
familiar, efficient.

—

Isang Tuesday.

Blank.

Walang adobo.
Walang schedule.
The whiteboard—
recipe na may surprise ingredient:

Sa ibaba, black Pentel,
medyo nabubura na:

 

PS: resigned na me. thank you all! 🖤

 

Walang pangalan.
Trembling handwriting.

Isang pusong garnish
or punctuation
or puncture mark.

—

Siguro siya ang
nagtitimpla ng powdered juice
bago pa kami mauhaw.

Siguro siya ‘yung nauuna
mag-time in sa umaga
para when we arrive,
may sabaw na.

Steadying his hand
bago isulat ang menu.

The kind of person
na kayang i-digest ng system
without chewing.

Walang resistance.
Walang gristle.

Sa kitchen
even salt disappears.

But salt leaves thirst.
What dissolves
rearranges the tongue.

—

The kitchen teaches
how to tenderize yourself.

Hinaan ang kalan.
Takpan.
Contain the boil.

Until sweat evaporates
without stain.

Until your badge
is reduced to flavor—

detectable
pero untraceable.

Busog ang board.

—

Nag-a-adjust ang shared calendar
around an absence.

Coming soon—
parang bagong Scotch Brite:
dry, stiff,
wala pang history ng kamay.

The old one,
squeezed daily
hanggang matutunan niya
the exact shape of pressure.

Walang nagtanong
saan itinapon.

—

Next week
may ulam ulit.

Chicken adobo na naman.
Nothing adjusted.
The same bawang.
The same sarsa.

But when we bite,
we do not say
it tastes like where the salt was.

—

For an hour
that Tuesday
na walang nakasulat,
tumigil ang machine
and we saw
the small teeth turning inside it.

Someone became visible
by subtracting himself.

Elsewhere,
mas full ang pantry.

Different menu.

The same kitchen.

Erase.
Rewrite.
Serve.

‘Yan ang recipe.

—

When Tuesday arrives
dragged by deadlines,

na-i-imagine ko ‘yung small heart
bleeding slowly
into the surface,
tumatawid to Wednesday,
to Thursday,

until every meal
carries
a taste
no one can name.

—

And we line up.

Tissue. Tray. Kanin. Ulam.

May alam na ang adobo—
tahimik lang.