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	<title>Zócalo Public SquarePISI &#8211; Zócalo Public Square</title>
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	<description>Ideas Journalism With a Head and a Heart</description>
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		<title>PISI</title>
		<link>https://legacy.zocalopublicsquare.org/2022/07/29/aldric-ulep/chronicles/poetry/</link>
		<comments>https://legacy.zocalopublicsquare.org/2022/07/29/aldric-ulep/chronicles/poetry/#respond</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 29 Jul 2022 07:01:16 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>by Aldric Ulep </dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[2022 Poetry Curator Series]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[poem]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[poet]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[poetry]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[<p>&#160; /‘pee-see/ 1. <em>n. </em>part, fragment, piece: I watch her slice the peeled calabash gourd into tiny windshields. 2. <em>v.</em> agpisi: to cut up, divide: Bonnet-mouth fish fermenting in a glass jar, blue plastic lid browned with innards. I slip a spoonful into a mesh strainer, sieving bones from concentrate. 3. <em>adj.</em> kappisi: it was just cut, it was divided just now: Boiled water poured over. Bones crushed, set aside. 4: <em>v.</em> ipapisi: to ask someone to cut up, divide, something: Grandma asks me to slice tomatoes and onions for the stew. How small, I ask, should I cut. When you lift a bite to your mouth, how much can you fit. 5. <em>v. </em>ipisian: to give a share to someone: I hand over the cutting board. With the knife, she sweeps the reds and whites into the saucepan. The half-moons slide into the thick, brown foam. 6: <em>v. </em>pisien: to separate, to halve: She gives me the ladle, puts &#8230;</p>
<p>The post <a rel="nofollow" href="https://legacy.zocalopublicsquare.org/2022/07/29/aldric-ulep/chronicles/poetry/">PISI</a> appeared first on <a rel="nofollow" href="https://legacy.zocalopublicsquare.org">Zócalo Public Square</a>.</p>
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<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>/‘pee-see/</p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><strong>1. </strong><em>n. </em>part, fragment, piece: I watch her slice the peeled calabash gourd into tiny windshields. <strong>2.</strong> <em>v.</em> agpisi: to cut up, divide: Bonnet-mouth fish fermenting in a glass jar, blue plastic lid browned with innards. I slip a spoonful into a mesh strainer, sieving bones from concentrate. <strong>3.</strong> <em>adj.</em> kappisi: it was just cut, it was divided just now: Boiled water poured over. Bones crushed, set aside. <strong>4:</strong> <em>v.</em> ipapisi: to ask someone to cut up, divide, something: Grandma asks me to slice tomatoes and onions for the stew. How small, I ask, should I cut. When you lift a bite to your mouth, how much can you fit. <strong>5.</strong> <em>v. </em>ipisian: to give a share to someone: I hand over the cutting board. With the knife, she sweeps the reds and whites into the saucepan. The half-moons slide into the thick, brown foam. <strong>6:</strong> <em>v. </em>pisien: to separate, to halve: She gives me the ladle, puts me in charge. Don’t fuss, you’ll soften the gourd to mush. <strong>7:</strong> <em>n. </em>pisien ti bagik: my spouse, <em>lit</em>. my other half: Dear love, this is the world we can never share. I wish I could show you how much this stew is worth, the jars of salted bonnet-mouth, fresh calabash gourds seated on the counter. <strong>8:</strong> <em>n. </em>kapisi ti puso: sweetheart, <em>lit.</em> a fragment of my heart: pisi of gourd, pisi of fishbone, pisi of boiling broth. <strong>9:</strong> <em>n. </em>pisi ti bulan: crescent moon, <em>lit.</em> moon fragment: I love you to the moon and back. How far, I ask, is the moon and back. When you lift your eyes to the moon, how much light can you take in.</p>
<p>The post <a rel="nofollow" href="https://legacy.zocalopublicsquare.org/2022/07/29/aldric-ulep/chronicles/poetry/">PISI</a> appeared first on <a rel="nofollow" href="https://legacy.zocalopublicsquare.org">Zócalo Public Square</a>.</p>
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