Sound Memory
For Loreto Yballe
Raechelle Yballe

Her words escaped me 
that thick Cebu summer 
yellowed by a lazy sun, muted 
lethargy seeping through. 

Carachuchis sweated perfume, 
she basked in the shivering hum, 
freon hisses escaping louvers, 
fanning liver spots splatters. 

The sun beat on the helpers, 
beating sheets to whiteness, 
beside the whitewashed pool 
where I imagined Daddy, 

lanky and asthmatic, cannonballed 
splashing ringlets in his wake, 
the spring board's sonar bounce 
plumbing the depths. 

These fickle junctions fail; 
the mind's ear hears 
neither stories, just the flapping 
of crisp Bicycles shuffling, 

nor words, just Papa's ivory cane 
tapping against the hollow floor - 
even Chaplin had words flashing 
white against a stark black screen. 

Only memories of memories now, 
my word-deaf world 
of her creation; 
she's forgotten, too. 


© 1999 Raechelle C. Yballe

Phillipine Sky - Marko Tovares