Under a Luzon Moon

So we live in the baranguay, in a two-story that shades
the cows in the midday sun, the walls of the house
the color of deepened sky,
the shine of it squeezing lemon into the eyes of men
in white languid drifts of cotton
who trudge home to corrugated tin walls and cinderblocks.

My shoulders slump. I examine cracks in the earth,
the ribs of cow who chew what's yellow, what's left of spring.

De-amplify. The farmers pool money, roll a karaoke machine,
roll truck speakers with wheels over the dirt, string six
frayed cords together and hand the consent
to me. I plug it in, grab a case of San Miguel, and shuffle over,
ducking under a single wooden beam there for mere decoration.

Re-amplify. The beers don't reach midnight. A stoop-shouldered
man -- the mayor, I am told -- reaches up and pats the middle
of my back. An auntie (maybe mine, maybe his, maybe everyone's)
whose leg twitters arrhythmically grasps the mic with shaking
quaking hands, wails "My Heart Will Go On," the lilt
of local tongue twisting the lyrics,
and the tin walls rust and buckle.

I stand tall under the peak of the roof,
the one place where I could stand tall
and gaze up through a slice in the V
where a country moon shines smart enough
to hide what it really thinks.