In Tiwi When I Was All of Seven

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

for D.E.

The tilapia came quick—
flickers of silver biting the hook
like they too were hungry for company.
By noon, the pail sang with their weight,
scales catching the sun like broken glass.

We stopped by the river,
your hands gutting the fish with a rhythm
that made even blood feel like ritual.
The river hummed beside us.
Our fingers smelled of earth and gills.

By dusk we walked home—
blades of sugarcane brushing our knees,

each stalk whispering stories

we were too young to understand.

The nipah shed waited, patient and smoke-scarred.
You lit the fire like you’d done it all your life,
arranged the fish over flame—
the crackle, a kind of hymn,
their skins blistering into gold.
We ate them straight from the pan,
burned our tongues a little, laughed a lot.

I remember thinking:
this is what grace must taste like—
not the fish, but your silence beside me,
your way of entering my joy

without needing to speak.