The Flight of the Rocketman

Another poem...

Manananggal

1.
On the car stereo on my way to work, the AM announcers read
from the unseen papers where everything must be true
that over 70 people were killed by a Manananggal in Cavite.
The image of a woman flying without her lower half, twenty feet
wingspan, like those of a bat and a hunger of a more carnal kind,
robs me of peace. I can imagine her sharp teeth tearing out skin,
her arms claw at the stomach, making their way to the liver and spleen.
This must be a feast of both innards and liquor: Kidneys heavy with Red
Horse and the stomach lining still wet with Tanduay or Ginebra or Gilbey’s.
Somewhere, a woman is sleeping, her hair black as coals, her hands
holding her skirt down to her legs. The cold bites at her thighs, her shins,
her knees. She is shivering. As she exhales, she is recognized
as the town drunkard.

2.
During our coffee break, you scare me by saying that we are destined
to love someone who is like ourselves. In-between sips of coffee black
and coffee with milk and cream and sugar, I mention that I was in love
once. Was he like you, you ask, did he always come late for work
and always talked about the lonely nights and the lonely days? Did he
eat alone in restaurants, with a book and a rose as his only companion?
Was that how you found each other and eventually got tired of the same
old-same old? No. We were much different. He was a vegetarian
and couldn’t stand the smell of meat or blood. I just got tired of cooking
chop suey and tossing salads. I got tired of wanting more and needing less.
Don’t we all was your smart-ass reply. You turn to go. Our fifteen minutes
are up. Behind you, you will not see me leave my lower half behind,
where lay dead the legs and torso of one who has not learned how to satisfy
hunger by taking only what is necessary to life and love.