Rachelle Arlin Credo was born and raised in the Philippines. She works as an entrepreneur and writes during her leisure time. She has had her work published in The Renascent, Static Movement, Women's Journal, Events Quarterly, Lily Literary Review, Poetic Hours, and Zygote in My Coffee.


She lays the white cloth
on the ground of grass
and opens the cans of coke
with gentle flicks.

On a little narra table
she sets the plates,
each with three hanging rice
and a quarter of lechon;

While he broils some meat
on a rack over hot coals,
the heat of the sun
and the coals before him
scorching his cheeks and forehead.

Smiles paint the little faces
of their children running against
the count of hide and seek
with the other kids in the plaza.

As the embers dry to the cooling sun
she calls them all to gather round
hands washed, faces flashing
they say a little prayer
before partaking
from the small banquet of love.


Peering through the window, tambis leaves
sway with the breeze; dancers of the night
with green veined fingers cast quirky shadows
against the cream-colored concrete walls.

Beneath them, I turn to the porcelain cup
in my hands, whirling the tinted water of
fresh picked tea leaves invisible under steam
before lushing up to quench my thirst.

I look up and marvel
as succulent tambis
bounce back and forth
from their wellspring
like little children
playing tug-of-war.

It's an ingenuous spectacle
of swollen receptacles and
callyces on chlorophyll clothes
and cellulose accessories.

With the wind swatting their soft skins,
I wonder how they held on
and remained firm with every blow.
Wouldn't they want to be free
and relish liberty on the ground?

I lay my back on a soft cushion
as the reality finally convinces me
in its bare simplicity.
I simply smile.