His black hair, and blue eyes
in those Asian eyelids, puzzled you.
Was it your German friend
who stayed around Asia for long?
The one who lives in caves?
Your memory of him is not enough
to explain that stern, piercing
look springing from those blue eyes.
‘My ojisan-ojisan has been guiding me
all through-out my trip in Japan,’
I told you. You doubted my mythic sensibility.
That night, when my great-great grandfather
appeared to you with that stern, piercing look
springing from those blue eyes
in those Asian eyelids, you angered me.
You displeased me from your
not-so-careful handling of a lady.
One of my aunts had those blue eyes.
She has yellow fair skin,
and black straight hair.
She always wondered why
she have those light blue eyes.
Out of wonder I asked asked Apong,
‘Is it true, Apo Agadang’s father was Japanese?’
We forgot about him all the while.
But thanks to my aunt’s blue Asian eyes.
‘Maybe we have the same ancestor,’
you said after a few weeks.
He bothered you all the while,
he made you remember him all the while.
With your Filipino eyes, and Mexican nose,
in your North American gestures
people still mistake you for a Japanese
in Goa, in Dharamsala, in Kathmandu
and in Baguio where you came to reside.
I am Dumay from the Cordilleras (mountain) region of the Northern Philippines.
I write poems everyday so I could survive, so I could tell myself that I am living.
I write about the Cordilleras and beyond. I was born and raised here and I have no problem in dying here. The mountains is my source of inspiration. She is my muse.