Rayji de Guia
Why is it difficult to navigate
Cubao as a woman who cannot
tell why there are five malls to visit,
as a woman who is not from anywhere
near the center like this—as a
woman?
Is it wise to shop while you wrap up
and pretend you are not suffering
underneath the layers you wear?
Or the layers you do not wear in the eyes
of city predators that slink between
alleys, trash on the pavement.
Is there a prayer against the lewd
gaze of theater billboards carrying
metaphors of vinegar, oil,
and open doors? Do you stay even
for a moment? A string of palms bearing
nothing lines MacArthur between the shore
of avenues; the jeep leads you from streets
named after foreign universities you’ll never visit
and heroes you’ll never meet. Are the farmers
in the plaza
