Kyle Cajucom-Uy

dot the cliff face like pastel tumors

and the ginger nubs you carry

to ward them off. Soon, your body will join the cluster,

suspended between rafflesia and flying shrikes.

You build your coffin small and refuse

to paint—it will stay the green brown of bark

in like decay,

           though I protest. Even now, I pray

novenas for healing and skin

pigs when the friars turn

in, my hands fluent where words fail. 

Yeast-dusted bottle bottoms. Chicken livers 

laid out. The ancient rituals sprout native 

from my fingers—no spirits

will mar your soul. In time, I will

       break

your bones, fold you fetal

to fit your grave. I will climb mountains and nail wood

into stone, wondering which god you pissed off, 

which gods I missed. In time, 

I will join you, and our corpses will fall

as they rose, nurturing fungi 

and the ginger I forage for. Their yellow stains 

my fingers

       and yours as you tuck them away, protesting

the smell. I claim the space beside you. Dusk comes

and, through the canopy, glints off two chisels 

shaping a green-brown coffin 

now smeared with yellow streaks.