On Juan Luna’s “Tampuhan (1895)”

It is a yellow afternoon that slides open
the capiz-shell windows,
that makes the mahogany floor
like a pond shimmer with silhouettes
of the ventanilla’s squinting fingers.
“My dear, you’re missing the procession
below.” He leans out, as if wanting
to join the shuffle of dusty feet.
She looks in, anchored to wooden things.
The yellow light passes without a sound
between them.