THE LONG SILENCE

THE LONG SILENCE

Maligned silence, milky as the swirl / at the bottom of a cup, toward which/ the face bends to drink, wanting more.---From “To Silence” by Luisa A. Igloria, Via Negativa,. 02-20-12

Silencio! Por Dios! Dionisia, drive the children away,

Father must get his rest on his rocking chair before

Doctor Querol sees him today. Rapido, hora mismo! 

She had those sewing glasses on, tumbling on her

Indio nose. (They were not mestiza-nariz). Senora

Dona, Patron, however they called her. She was strong.

Como esta, Dora?  Bien, gracias! Y usted, Antonio?

If the ailing padre de familia, somnolent on his chair,

heard her greet the family doctor with a bit of alacrity 

he would grip her now bony fingers, los dedos finos

of those schooled in the conquistador’s Cartilla, and

would have rasped: Hija, mia! Con poquito verguenza! 

He did not stir when the Madrid-trained physician

placed an unwarmed stethoscope on his rib-cage,

first on the right, then on the left, then quickly back. 

He held his pulse, he grabbed a warm lavacara

ready in the mayordoma’s hands, wiped the old

man’s face, grabbed a vial of streptomycin…Oooh. 

When he looked at her, he with the aquiline nose,

he with the manners of the caballero of olden days

before the kempetai  razed mansions like theirs 

so the Yanquis and maybe loose guerrillero bands

would not feign control in those huge houses,

the ilustrados shared a municipio as their homes. 

Aiee, Dora! Lo siento mucho, Dora. But Alejandro

has just left us! She stared at the swirl at the bottom

of the warm milk he would normally take after siesta. 

Dionisia started jumping around in manic grief,

the hired help, the Japanese governadorcillo,

stood silently. She drank the milk instead. Gave me 

the rest, from powdered Yanqui milk, while I stared

at her wrapping the absent Patron with the franela

sent to him earlier by his brothers, the Freemasons, 

together with the wall-to-wall portrait of their hero,

Dr. Jose Protacio Rizal, who seemed to stare down

at me with a stony silence I would describe in a novel 

much, much later, when I recovered enough sense

not to malign silence, even if it comes from the bottom

of an empty cup, and, why have I always wanted more?

---Albert B. Casuga

02-25-12