Ericson Acosta's "Pitong Sundang" series translated by Charlie Samuya Veric
First Dagger: Last Slash and Burn
Beforehand the neck, then the forehead, now it’s the mountain’s cowlick
that we are slashing and burning—our last slash and burn.
Have you heard the chatters of the greedy
that I long to hunt you down, execute despite the cries?
Raze, let’s smash, the bridges in an eye’s wink.
Make sure the firewood burns without fumes.
Teach the dogs to howl soundlessly.
And on the trail disguise the trap that we’ve laid.
It’s silly to insist on crossing the clouds
if this parapet is found and our trap is dismantled.
Let’s hold fast to our righteous daggers
though a veil of fog is our only shield.
Second Dagger: Table
We remember, we’re cracking
the coconut
and the birds go darting.
We remember, we’re cutting
breadfruits and jackfruits
and other gifts with sap.
We remember, we’re slicing
a mango’s face
or perhaps a basketful of rice cakes.
We remember, we’re slitting
the neck of the bound and what joy
the squirting blood provides us with.
We’re cleaving
into pieces this boa as big as an arm—
offerings to the sick and anxious.
Third Dagger: Perspective
At times we tried to see
how straight, even, and pointed
our dagger’s edge and spine were.
I aimed it at the sky one day
and like the archer of hornbills and sparrows
I shut my left eye.
Then something appeared in my crosshairs:
a dragonfly it seemed—massive and motorized.
A million daggers are melted to make it,
the people said, and it’s shit is fire.
Fourth Dagger: Journal
Misspelled
we carve the names
of the remembered and deeply loved
on the side of a tree
on canes
on conch shells and bamboo instruments
on coconuts and pots.
Misspelled, yes,
but touch them and they truly are
the unfortunate chronicles
in the gaps between these letters—
burrowing into calluses and nails
like scales, spleens, and gills.
They truly are these:
the orphaned; the befuddled;
the anxious and sleepless;
the murdered while asleep;
the felled because already awakened
and to others are the awakeners.
Misspelled
we carve each syllable
of our memories and prayers
on the open post
on stairs
on windows and tables
on bamboo benches and beds.
Misspelled but true
and no longer a trace
of lesions, scrawls, and smudges;
no longer a brief half-consciousness.
These are the solid sores
of our found nightmares:
ruptures on lips and palates;
naked wound on the face;
fresh cut on the forehead;
tear in the stomach of a mother
who devoured daggers
because there was nothing else to eat.
Fifth Dagger: Poem
And some of us dared
To carve the oath
on the breast of the cave.
Each word beating
in the lambent fire:
Forge
Steel
Fire
Punch
SHARP.
Sharp
Grip
Scabbard
Rope
DAGGER.
Dagger
Wretched
Step
Night
AMBUSH.
Sixth Dagger: Grindstone
After clearing and collecting wood for an afternoon
we gather
to sharpen our daggers.
In the remains of night on a lichened hill
beside a spring of crabs and snails
we gather
to sharpen our daggers.
Even then we have known
the mad curse brought
by deterioration and bluntness,
by dent and rust—
by unrelenting tolerance
for the greedy;
by pure pity for self-imposed misery
as the criminal condoles, rewards,
forgives, sings;
by doubting and thousand-fold indecisions
until blinded and crushed
from staring long at the flames;
when we’re all
floundering in the same mess—
thus we gather
to sharpen our daggers.
All night long if need be,
altogether, we steadily pare
each grindstone we find
till it cracks
under our sweat and destitution—
because we gather
to sharpen our daggers.
Till it’s likely to disguise
like swarming fireflies
the glint of our weapons,
we gather
to sharpen our daggers.
Till our weapons
make the air bleed,
we gather
to sharpen our daggers.
Till one of our children proclaims—
the naked and least of grandchildren from the wilderness;
the sickliest, most stolid and stuttering heir
of infinite void
and all sins.
“Tomorrow,” she says,
“the mass that shares our aim today
will match the number of cuts
on the master’s neck.”
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