before you left, your husband Esmael
received terrible threats. so he sent
his family’s women, even pregnant,
in his stead to the election office, to prevent
his own death. you went, and yet
none have called him selfish to presume
the long-ruling clan would not murder
so many women and journalists.
when they stopped your convoy, Genalyn,
did you know what was to come?
did your stomach knot or turn to steel
as they dragged you out to die
speared your eyes, shot your breasts,
and left no one alive. in that moment,
the reporters who wrote the news
became it. Ampatuan swept away
the bodies like dirt under his rug.
even the backhoe bore his name.

when they found you, raped, bloodied
clothing and bloated belly full
of the last story you would never tell,
they covered you with banana leaves
to hide the shame belonging
to all of us. your hands,
grey with death and dust, curled,
grasping at a different fate
for those sent into a stagnant
world to create change.

(c) 2009 Angela C. Martinez Dy