An Offering

By Michael Janairo

I.
The dark husks of a halved coconut
held steaming slices of roast pork,
purple rice cakes, green bataw beans,
and a bouquet of white blossoms
from fresh-cut sampaguita, all carried
in the outstretched hands of a boy
leading men and bancas to the sea.

He waded into waist-high water
and pushed the Diwata's offering away
and watched it wobble on the surface
until it disappeared into the deep,
a payment for the ancient sea spirit
to guide and protect the fishermen
as they paddled into their day's work.

The boy, as his ancestors before him,
stayed in the surf and hoped to glimpse
the one who took the foods that left
his mouth watering and who brought
the men home with a bounty of fish,
his small body tight in anticipation
that she would rise, a dazzling light,
like Christ, The White Lady of the Sea.

II.
Fevered, he paddles out to sea
weakened by malarial shakes,
the high-sun tropical heat,
he doesn't rest until his
shore-line home is lost from view

He stifles a cough
Japanese voices carry
shouting at his wife and child
to stay outside as soldiers
search for anything, though he
would be the prize, and the papers
stashed in a valise at his feet.

More voices—wife? child?—
his fevered body shudders
and thinks of dark coconut husks,
sliced pork, rice cakes, bataw beans,
and wishes to teach his boy
about offerings to the sea spirit,
but what need has he, a city child,
trembling, for a diwata at a time of war?

His ill chest heaves with such violence
he cannot contain his coughs,
wracking across the waves, he fears
all will be lost, save for a sudden presence
breaking the sea's solemn surface,
crowned with white blossoms
and rivulets of flowing hair,
cascades of noisy splashes,
like frenzied bangús taking to air,
mask his hacks and when,
his heaving chest relaxed,
he mouths his thanks, but
the White Lady of the Sea is gone,
leaving a bright sun, still blue sky
and ebbing Japanese voices
as the patrol moves on from
his home, wife, child and sea.

****

Michael Janairo is an Army brat whose father, uncle, and lolo (Filipino for grandfather) were all West Point graduates and career officers. He earned an MFA in writing from the University of Pittsburgh and a bachelor's in journalism at Northwestern University. His poetry and fiction have been published in numerous literary journals, and is forthcoming in Event and Weirdbook magazines. His Filipino family name is pronounced 'ha NIGH row.' He blogs at michaeljanairo.com.