When I was a child,

I learned how to float

on my back by imagining

the pool as a bed.
The posture

trained to be soft and yielding.
Nowadays, a child in my country

learns how to drown

with his face on the pavement.
In a moment, he is soaring

through the humid air, over

the cans of his playmates.
When he lands, he slips

on the oil of night and kneels,

is given a cardboard sign as lifesaver,

then takes in the completeness of dirt.
He is salvaged, although no one

in my country wishes to be,

for it is never certain who is saved.
Whispers know that those

who have kept their heads above

the flood use the stiff sacrifices,

prop their elbows on the driftwood.
The water, it runs between

the asphalt,

it carries the stench of a body.
My nation is birthed from this tradition

of typhoons and of men

who shout over torrential voices:

I will save all of you,  
Then bless the people

with the power of seeing death:

a new corpse

as a drop of rain, instead

of a monsoon.
If a body can sink so easily,

why should memory be different?
But we have not forgotten.

The way we say goodbye is ingat,

survive, swim well and stay intact,

I hope to see you in the morning light.