Copra

The noon swelters in Torrijos as shadows
of palm trees sway on the surface

of the road where heat waves
from a distance blur slow jeepneys

avoiding the other half newly-cemented
with what was left: coconut halves

spread out on straw-woven carpets,
hoping sweat comes out of the skin

with meat removed & exported away
to foreign towns who hunger for it – the same

shade of white as their skins – unlike here
where she roasts along with these toasted

brown shells, brittle bodies remaining after
their spirits leave them to take revenge

and set fire to their lives turned to hell.

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