In my lagalag years, I spent a year in Ifugao. On weekdays we would climb the rice terraces at dawn, wrapped in thick fog, visiting homes scattered across the mountains. One of my favorite memories from those days is learning to make tapuey, carefully enveloping the bubud in rice, a gentle, almost sacred gesture I’ve only learned to appreciate when I got older.
๐๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต๐ข๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ
We gather, moonlit children
of rice gods, steeped in yeast and ๐จ๐ข๐ฏ๐จ๐ด๐ขโs ringing hush,
laughter drifting sideways,
whispered secrets slipping
between mouths.
Someone sings in a language I almost grasp,
soft vowels curling like smoke
from the ๐ช๐ญ๐ช,
the terraces asleep
around us, fog
feathering at their edges.
I drink from a bowl
that echoes a thousand harvests.
Inside me the ๐ต๐ข๐ฑ๐ถ๐ฆ๐บ blooms,
fermented echoes rouse,
yeast murmuring sweet deceit
of sleep,
with a hush like sugared death.
We were careless then,
young and godless,
๐ฃ๐ถ๐ฃ๐ถ๐ฅ crushed softly
between fingers that never knew
how things ferment,
bitter bits adrift, sweet, then sour,
then silent.
Tonight I drink again,
this warmth that loosens names,
Now I know, memory slips in,
unasked,
on nights when I hunger
for the taste
of what I once held,
briefly,
on my tongue.
