THE OTHER HALF OF ME

THE OTHER HALF OF ME

(in memory of Wilfrido D. Nolledo, author of But for the Lovers, E.P. Dutton, New York, 1970)

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 va ulted 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.  - Blanca Datuin, 2004