Tampuhan
Tampuhan
It was cooler on the verandah.
We had quarreled earlier
your pino terno gown whispers
while you give me the silent treatment.
The apartment seems to sulk
in the orchid laden air.
The heart of a guitar was playing
on the street below.
A young Filipino minstrel
sang a sentimental song:
about the sea and shore
how they really want
to dance as one tempo.
When I ask you about the song
the rustle of your falling dress
spoke for both ours bodies.
“It’s tampuhan,” you say
with a slow smile.
Later I understood.
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