Monsoon’s Yellow Soup

I never understood these hills in La-Carlota
that drift into sleep, wailing as we are rinsed
by the rain. Their faces corrugate like
ours, as our tongues cut through scalding
breakfast soup that yellows our skins.
The rain spits on the hill, clogging
our roof. We could ground this hill,
sprinkle its shards into our coffee. Our stomachs
churn like the tractor, Lola tells us
to wait, for March – when the sunlight runs
down to the Maragandang river, green
skirts blanketing the foot of the hill, brining
under the orange pulp above us.
The Turneras, arching, away from the leaves
tainted by the last typhoon, cradled
in it’s buds, kernels of rice, blooming
filling our plates as we wait for the showers to disappear.

Previously published by the Trouvaille Review

By Tara Tulshyan

Biography:

Tara Tulshyan is a sophomore living in the Philippines. Her works have…