by Cristina Legarda

The Spaniards arrived and encountered fecundity –
the lush greenness of taro terraces,
ripe fruits falling from branches surrendering
to the weight of their abundance, trees
with green leaves so large
we could shelter beneath them in the rain,
an uninhibited earth almost flamboyant
in its yielding and giving,
endless green over lowlands and mountains
and a bluish-green at the shore.

You were the green goddess who raised their suspicion,
defied comprehension, challenged belief,
a man who was a woman,
a woman with the power to feed the green world,
to heal, deal with evil, see the future, rise above the past –
like the shaman women of all sexes who recited your truths,
for whom intimacy and creativity and poetry were no threat.

The priests from Spain worshipped an ivory man
nailed to wood, a pallor and confinement so foreign
to a people whose faith was in motion, celebration, and life.
The priests could not comprehend our joy, our equality,
the power of our women, When we continued to hold up
our children to you, praying
Lakapati pakanin mo, huwag mong gutumin –
Lakapati, feed them, let them not hunger –
they told us your new name was Espíritu Santo,
moved you out of reach
from rows of green unhusked rice.

We have almost forgotten you.
We prepare wood for an icon of you –
not the dead wood of the cross
but the living wood of the jungles,
our shelter and warmth;
the linen over it not a death shroud
but a mantle of protection;
layers of gesso, gold leaf, and green
egg tempera to complete our blasphemous
glorification of you, transgender goddess
of fertile lands and hearts,
kind spirit of our people,
woman of our dreams.
 

About the Author
Cristina Legarda was born in the Philippines and spent her early childhood there before moving to Bethesda, Maryland. She is now a practicing physician in Boston. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in America Magazine, Dappled Things, Plainsongs, FOLIO, HeartWood, and others.