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                 A poem:    by Rebecca S E Baroma

 

Solving the Sweetest Science

 

Daddy didn't like

To be bothered

solving the sweetest science

 

staring at the screen, Muhammad Ali Fly like a butterfly Sting like a bee.

 

Back in the early stages of the day,

         before he married my mother

and had me and the other two, before Hanoi took Ho Chi Minh,

         from across the sea, 

 it was his tatay,s stomach aching fantasy for his son to join

 the US Navy, be a Seabee" because his tatay's feet hurt

 since the death march of Bataan.

 

Because daddy passed some tests: MacArthur or McCarthy (he got them mixed up),

and stuff of History, no TB,

pure blood and no flatfeet,

 

he pulled outfits, rat-a-tat-tat and bang, bang, bang, bang!

 

as @f he were going back home to La Union,

 

in the boyish slippers that bared his dirty feet and spread-out toes,

       when he from  stealing and sharing a fat dog

       and his bones for his tatay and family

 

to fulfill that stomach aching fantasy.

 

He marched, saluted, and restrained-the respect of a soldier on and (mostly) off

duty, off guard:

 

Houseboy!  Where're my dag gan shoes?

Didya. shine 'em

 

reg-you-lay-shun style?

Sumva bitch, if I can't sees

my giddan -reeeeflekshun in ‘em

 

     yer doin'50!

     and you make sure ya tell yer ye Ha friends

     in that there galley

     below ima cravin' filet mignon, rare! fer feed,

     not too much seasonin'

     mind you, y'all put too much salt.

                               'Tenshun!

   Though it was close to the last round

   Daddy didn't like to be bothered

 

   until the fight was over, he had his

   orders, a special duty assigned

   for his kind--a one-on-one

   combat

   sort-of-thing.

 

(published poem by Rebecca Baroma, Northridge Review, UCUN)