The Province

In the car
The air conditioning
Was blowing its voice
In my face

The breath of
The voice was of
The new car smell
Variety

And the radio
Blared the loud
Guitar strummings
And pickings from
Back home

And outside the
Window was the
Province

And the air
Conditioned voice
Said, we’re in
The province

And the province
Passed across
The window

The hills
The trees shooting
All over in every
Angle, the burning
Sugar cane and the
Black faces of the
Workers seared in
Shadows whose mouths
Are deep wells holding
Memory and the lingering
Taste of the blood of our
People

And the air conditioned
Voice said, you’re in
The province

And I said, will you
Shut the fuck up? I
Know I’m in the province

And the air conditioned
Voice shut up

And it began to
Get hot, burning
Hot

Sweat came out
Of hiding

And the nipa huts
And sari sari stores
Stood stoically between
Trees on the sides of roads
While mothers fed their babies
And washed clothes at the
Same time

Ants began crawling
Up my arm, first a
Few, then an army

You’re in the
Province, the air
Conditioned voice said

Yeah motherfucker,
I know

(C) 2017 Tony Robles.

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