THE OTHER HALF OF ME
By Blanca Datuin
(in memory of Wilfrido D. Nolledo, author of But for the Lovers)
Beneath this mound of soil
lies the other half of me,
in wait for this self
still walking the ground
trekked together before, but
now dotted with only a pair of footprints.
I lay the roses upon the tombstone
in a ritual of love, and pray:
please God let him who loved
you continue to love you,
and you who loved him in his life
continue to love him evermore.
I sit awhile on the grass
the well of tears at last
comes unabated, unashamed as,
desolate, I speak to the other half of me,
retrieving images of the past,
the highs and lows of our together life:
the poetry we fed on that filled the soul
as our empty pouches laid concealed in the
richness of our dreams; the hurts we
unknowingly meted out to each other. What are
aches and pains for--that gnaw at layers and layers
of grit--if they cannot unearth the Phoenix in us?
Shared rage against inequity, shared agony
over the cauldrons of war, shared anguish
over injustice, shared dreams and hopes for peace.
Such passion and ecstasy, anger and humor--
all inextricably bound in the mingling
of life’s laughter and tears.
This self must go on through the motions of life
though not quite whole, not quite hale,
for the other half of me is gone.
(How strong she is, people say; if only they knew…)
Tasks must be finished, whatever the heavens drop;
but there is an end to every journey, I, too well, know.
Little drops of rain moisten the soil on my other half;
the cold tomb looks up at the endless blue above,
and the earth sucks the tears of the vaulted sky.
I beg the other half of me, be patient, wait for the
Dispenser of Life to fill the tomb’s empty space by your side
and make the we of us complete again. #
