From "Morphic Variations," 1st Prize,
Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature 2008
Francis C. Macansantos
The Skylight
In ancient times, at play’s end, a god
(An actor, that is, arrayed to look like one)
Was lowered by pulleys onto the stage
To clear it of all the mortal clutter,
And free hero or heroine from the web
Of circumstance—those threads with hooks
That spun around them as they struggled to break free.
That scene: A god brought down from heaven
By a machine used for the very first few times
Most certainly inspired awe in eyes
Not yet dulled by the centuries to follow
Of slick technology. A god! A god!
Being the one awake in the room darkness
Of early dawn, I was alone distressed,
Like a prowler feeling helpless at eventually
Being discovered an intruder to your peace.
But with unbidden grace the light, especially
Pale-gold-sepiaed-matutinal poured winely down,
Tapering like a tent, though silken-slender, gown-like.
Your youth, age-tinted thus, seemed a gift
From an Old Master with a light technique
Now impossible to decode. A portrait I treasure.
And the Gordian knot around my heart
Slackened and fell away.
Sleeping Hermaphroditus, from the LouvreFrom "Sl(e)ights," 2nd Prize,
Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature 2008
Ana Maria Katigbak
Sleights
It was the summer before girls, the summer
We escaped from our fathers as we would
A burr of worry in our minds, the plots of our lives
Like the plots of serialized novels, short enough
To keep our attention but long enough to keep
The story going. It was the summer of gaffes and tricks,
As you labored nightly over how to twist an ace
Face-up in the space between two cards, a trick that took
A simple wrist-flick for all but the ace of spades
That took a snap and a flick from you, as I watched amazed.
On a phonograph, the Cure sang “Show me, show me
Show me how you do that trick—”
As I played the willing skeptic and you flicked
Each down-turned ace until it came face-up,
Now the clubs, now the diamonds,
In the slow summer heat. Outside, the lampposts
Burned low and orange, and in their halo we wore
Our sweat as second skin, exactly like second skin.
In a year we’d turn to other things,
The wild release of sex, the sharp, gunmetal pride
Of our fathers that we took as proof of ourselves—
But as you flicked that ace in a quartet of cards
And by summer’s end I knew that with each tap
You meant to turn the ace ink-heavy with its spade,
The less I believed in the trick than in magic.
And though we labored in time
For harder proof, it was then that we knew
It was the real that was marvelous.
Paul Cezanne, Harlequin
