In Memoriam Liliosa
Hilao

Gonzalinho da Costa

I was
the first murder victim under Marcos’ martial law regime.
I will
not be the last casualty of political repression.
What
was my crime?
I
exercised my freedom of speech and expression.
They
were guaranteed under our constitution.
I
exercised my freedom of the press.
Associate
editor of Hasik, our university
student publication,
I wrote
articles like “The Vietnamization of the Philippines,” “Democracy Is Dead in
the Philippines Under Martial Law.”
The
year I died I was 23 years old, about to graduate with honors from Pamantasan ng Lungsod ng Maynila.
Soldiers
forced their way into my home, looking for my brother.
He was a
Communist, they claimed.
Not
there, they ate our family’s lunch, like wolves, no fairy tale.
Arriving
home with my sister, a high school student, I asked for a search warrant.
They
slapped me, forced me into a room, attempted gang rape.
They
beat my sister, damaging her hearing and eyesight.
Nighttime,
they hauled us both off to a military camp.
They
pummeled me like a live chicken before it’s stewed.
Bruised
all over, I resembled a ripe blackberry bush.
Injected
with “truth serum,” I turned into a tender, swollen orange punctured multiple
times.
Indentations,
gun barrel points, inscribed my flesh like seals of the Antichrist.
Ringed
by a bracelet of cigarette burns, my mouth hung open, a door about to shut.
Old hempen
bag, I collapsed in the cell I shared with my sister, middle of the night.
Powerless
to prevent further abuse, handcuffed by circumstances, my brother-in-law, an
army officer, visited me.
They
are my last witnesses.
Next
day, I was gang-raped in the men’s bathroom.
To destroy
my testimony, they poured muriatic acid down my throat
And
then alleged I had committed suicide.
Some compassionate
man, they said, attempted to save my life by stabbing my throat so that I could
breathe.
Hole in
my throat says otherwise.
I was
butchered like a pig, by pigs.
They
excavated my internal organs to destroy any evidence of rape.
They
divided my body, top of skull down to pubis, same purpose.
Again,
I ask, what was my crime?
I had spoken
on behalf of freedom, using my intellectual gifts from God.
My
brain was returned to my family in a pail.
I had
drawn courage from my heart, my deepest entrails, so to speak.
My
entrails were also returned in a pail.
I had opened
my mouth in protest.
My
tongue was cut in half.
I was the
poster girl for the fate of all those who dared to oppose the regime.
I am
the first. I will not be the last.
Never
forget.
Never
again.
Nie vergessen.
Nie wieder.


Author’s note: The poem is about the torture and murder of Liliosa Hilao during the
martial law regime of Marcos. Some artistic license has been used to
recreate her ordeal. The poem responds to Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte’s
expressed intention to bury Marcos at the Cemetery of Heroes (Libingan
ng mga Bayani) on September 11, 2016. The poem protests Duterte’s action by inciting remembrance of the
heinous crimes committed under Marcos’ command responsibility. Allusion
to the Holocaust is intentional.


Gonzalinho da Costa—a pen name—teaches at the Ateneo Graduate School of
Business, Makati City, Philippines. He is a management research and
communication consultant. A lover of world literature, he has completed
three humanities degrees and writes poetry as a hobby.

Jane Rosenberg LaForge

 

I should have been reading
Nancy Drew or The Bobbsey Twins
but I was all about the salmon
in fifth grade; in the old classroom
made over for the future.
After years of waiting, the city
hired tractors and loaders to hoist
up one of our bungalows,
and swing it over the new foundation
before letting it drop, and just like that,
we had a new campus.
We set to work, the boys in their sports,
the girls in their mysteries,
and I with my fish, valiant,
hustling upstream to perform
solo acts of derring-do.
Much like a monk diving into
a rainbow of saffron and petrol
to make a point about how living
in his country without such miracles
had become untenable.

 


Jane Rosenberg LaForge’s is the author of a new chapbook In Remembrance of the Life, published by Spruce Alley Press.  Her next full-length collection of poems will be Daphne and Her Discontents from Ravenna Press in late 2016 or 2017. She is the author of An Unsuitable Princess: A True Fantasy/A Fantastical Memoir” (Jaded Ibis Press, 2014); and four volumes of poetry. Her 2012 chapbook, The Navigation of Loss, was one of three chapbooks chosen for publication by Red Ochre Lit in its annual contest. 
More information is available at 
jane-rosenberg-laforge.com.

Ace Boggess

                  Dowling Productions, 1953

          

when I saw the title I thought
of the folk singer Donovan
happy hippie chirpy crooning sweet
but that’s not him on the stretcher
not his gray matter growing
pulsing in a scientist’s aquarium
it’s one more scheming money man
with new life & new power
to control others (not that he couldn’t
already) he’s a tax cheat
a conspirator to crimes unspoken of
it might have made a better story
if the brain took over other brains &
their bodies suddenly began to sing
“Hurdy Gurdy Man” or “Mellow Yellow”
that would be like a haunted Volkswagen
filled with the ghosts of clowns
a merry melancholy where
the ectoplasm glitters & scents
of carnations breach the screen
no here’s just another bastard who
wants it all & wants to take it with him
while others want to stop him
but how can they? which I think
was the point of folk songs all along


Ace Boggess is the author of two books of poetry: The Prisoners (Brick
Road Poetry Press, 2014) and The Beautiful Girl Whose Wish Was Not
Fulfilled (Highwire Press, 2003). His novel, A Song Without a Melody, is
forthcoming from Hyperborea Publishing. His writing has appeared in
Harvard Review, Mid-American Review, RATTLE, River Styx, North Dakota
Quarterly and many other journals. He lives in Charleston, West
Virginia.

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Ace Boggess

palm fronds crackle in the breeze
like kernels of popcorn
percolating coffee
one hundred fingers snapping
to a song that no one hears

full moon blasts the clear sky
like a motorcycle headlight
coming closer
as invisible wheels
assault the open highway

even crickets refrain from song
though there are many
their prayers constant
faithful as those of prisoners
at rest for years on their iron bunks


Ace Boggess is the author of two books of poetry: The Prisoners (Brick
Road Poetry Press, 2014) and The Beautiful Girl Whose Wish Was Not
Fulfilled (Highwire Press, 2003). His novel, A Song Without a Melody, is
forthcoming from Hyperborea Publishing. His writing has appeared in
Harvard Review, Mid-American Review, RATTLE, River Styx, North Dakota
Quarterly and many other journals. He lives in Charleston, West
Virginia.

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– M. A. Istvan Jr.

1

Dusky nimbi
dampen the glow
of closed blinds.

The cotton sheet
cloaks us from squalls
stirred by fans.

And the tin roof rings.

2

To evade the death conniption
recall that urge to stay in
bed
those dark mornings of storm.

Say it was the urge to
forsake
keeping the jigsaw together
(though that would be a lie).

3

Drawing the drapes
on this pouring slate day
stops shadows from drooling
down the bookcase.

4

Pearl-end stems of liquid
coronets
over impact craters closing.

Limpid domes afloat upon
plashets
behind each pother reposing.

5

Sheets of lashing rains
gust-swept down dead ends
like silky top-sands
over desert dunes.

Each swift white ripple
vanishing into viridity.

6

You feel bad that you must
go to write lines or paint
as opposed to sitting here
meditating on the rain.

But let comfort you this.
Doing so makes you the rain
rather than its devotee.

7

The flood carried away
his mound of grass clippings
building for twenty years
at the edge of the forest.


M. A. ISTVAN JR., still into extreme shoulder pads, spends most of his
time lobbying for the rerelease of BoKu, an adult juice box from the
90s. Visit his page at https://txstate.academia.edu/MichaelIstvanJr.

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Kenneth Pobo

Ever since Adeline was a little girl she wanted to be
rich.  Not rich, really, but rich beyond
compare, the richest woman in the world.
It could happen!  On late night TV
when she was seven she saw Ruth Chatterton starring in The Rich Are Always With Us.  At the end, charming rich Ruth married George
Brent, a sexy novelist—who made money.

For twenty-one years Adeline was married to a
porridge-looking guy, Ernie, who ran a sporting equipment store in the Divine
Gator Mall.  She never set foot in the
store, even when Ernie and his employees celebrated its twentieth year in
business.  That was the beginning of the
end.

“You
missed the balloons, Adeline.  Shit.  Some wife.”

“Everything
pops sooner or later.  Congratulations
anyway.”

Clearly, Ernie would not make her the wealthiest woman who
had ever been born.  It wasn’t Ernie’s
fault, she knew.  A guy who wore old
hushpuppies everyday, he wouldn’t get it.
In “real” life, George Brent and Ruth Chatterton got married.  For two years.  Real life didn’t impress Adeline.  It never had a fur collar.

She routinely entered the lottery but say you won 500
million bucks, you’re still not the richest.
It’s a boost, but you don’t get to be number one.

Adeline was like a mannequin in Ernie’s store, holding a
ball, something she couldn’t throw, an eternal pose.  She died at sixty-eight.  The lights went out, tennis balls huddled in
tubes, and the mall took an enormous pink pill and fell asleep.


Kenneth Pobo had three new books in 2015: When The Light Turns Green
(Spruce Alley Press), Bend of Quiet (Blue Light Press), and Booking
Rooms in the Kuiper Belt (Urban Farmhouse Press).  He teaches creative
writing and English at Widener University.  He gardens, is somewhat of
an authority on Tommy James and the Shondells, and read Hardy’s
Return of the Native this June.

(JoeFrank)

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Alec Solomita

At a certain point, it’s all loss.
You can’t drive at night any
more. Calamari gives you
indigestion. Booze becomes
as impotent as you.
Friends peel off like old skin.
Parents are long gone. Children
turn on you like it’s your fault.
And your spouse just drifts off,
thinning into the blue sky
like smoke at the nursing home’s
Fourth of July barbecue.

 


Alec Solomita is an editor and writer living in Somerville, Mass. He’s
published criticism in The New Criterion, The New Republic, and
elsewhere. His fiction has appeared in, among other publications, The
Adirondack Review, The Mississippi Review, Southwest Review, and
Ireland’s Southword Journal. Recently, he’s published poetry in
3Elements Literary Review, Literary Orphans, Silver Birch Press, Turk’s
Head Review, Algebra of Owls, and Driftwood Press.