Igorot Dance

Sir,the racket out there on open driveway
Is of empty sardine can clanging out
The beat of some rain dance or other
For three:two men in denim shorts
And a woman,striped in the festal colors
Of their tribe,now faded
The beads around her throat dim with age.
Her gestures mimic an eagle's flight.
Without life of mountain air
The stoop in their learn bodies
Has none of the supple rhythm of the hunt
As they shuffle,shuffle
Like sleepwalkers,the steps all wrong,
Lacking in the jubilation of blood-feasts
The warriors fathers reveled in.Only
The slithers of tattos
On arms and thigh gleaming through sweat
Recalls a sentaint pride of place,
The Cordilleras rising behind their backs
Like the conscience of former selves,
As in beer commercials.