Sa sineng Sakay ni Raymond
Red, ikinasunod
sa kakukutsilyong
litson
Ang imahen ng naitapon
at naikulong
na taksil-kalahing nagsumbong
sa ating kontra-Espanyang rebolusyon.

Pero puwera sa pasaheng
Ito sa pelikulang malungkot,
Ang tingin natin
Sa itong pagkain
Ay ang kakaiba niyang lutong
Ng balat at lasap-tabang
Lambot.

Litson ng Espanya!
Litson ng Pilipinas…
Litson ng mga kaarawan
Lalo na’ng Pasko.

Pero `pag nasa States ka
Nagtratrabaho
(at hindi sa San Francisco)
At walang Lydia’s…

Naroon naman
Ang maaring `di lutoin,
Maari ding mailuto
Na karneng prosciutto.

Kapag walang litson
at ang pumapaligid na piging
ang galing-Italyang prosciutto’y
Hamon na kaingatang pinaghimas,
Hinilutan ng asin.

Kaingatang hinihiwa din,
Nipis niya’y tulad sa talulot
Nguni’t ang lapad ay gaya
Ng `sampanig ng panty.

Kapag isinubo
Sa hulno
At ang prosciutto’y
I-“bake”.
Lasa niya’y `di kukulangin
Sa sarap `din ng biik.
Maitataguriang kapalit,
Gaya ng babasahing FHM
O ang mga pahina
Ng Penthouse at Playboy
kapag wala si Ruth Pison,
at ang iilang niyang retratong
nailabas sa websayt ng Carillon.

Mga ikli-paldang gunita,
Kagalitan ng mga punyeta.

********
[An argument of the poem
in English follows here:]

In Raymond Red’s film
About Macario Sakay,
Late chief of our Tagalog race,
the scene that follows
the serving of freshly
roasted suckling pig (lechon)
is the image of the
traitor among the Tagalogs
who ratted on
our brave revolution
against Spanish domination
and yet still was
(even by the Spaniards
Who used his information)
Thrown to jail.

But apart from this sad passage
From the tragic movie
What comes to our mind
About this lechon dish
Is the exemplary
Crispness of its thick skin
And its lard-licking goodness
Of subcutaneous tenderness.

Lechon from Spain!
Litson of the Philippines.
Roasted Suckling pig
For birthdays and big
Celebrations: Christmas, too.

But if you’re oceans away
Here in the United States (and
not even The San Francisco Bay
area) and there’s no Lydia’s
nor any other brand
of the roasted suckling pig (lechon)
To be bought...

There is instead prosciutto
Which may be baked
Or eaten raw.

When there’s no piglet,
Nor the feast to go with it,
the Italian-made prosciutto
Is a ham so meticulously treated---
Cured with salt.

Most carefully it is sliced
As thin as flower-petals,
But with the breadth
Of a rip of lingerie.

When fed into the oven
And prosciutto is baked,
Its flavour does not fall
Short of the meat of
Suckling pig.
A worthy stand-in,
Like the FHM magazine
Or other glossy volumes
Of humour, attempted
Doctrine
And glamour photography
To while away dry time
When there’s no communication
To be found with people
Who have vanished
(after having warranted
So much fondness from us),
Nor on-line pictures to be scrounged
Of the most teasing acquaintances.

Short-skirted memories,
How they clench the heart