bakla rising

an affirmation from my child spirit:

remember

remember you are the moon

you loved grandmother ocean

followed her path

every night to morning’s wake

this was your ritual

on nights when ancestors

would visit your child self

they told you stories

unlocked the medicine that was hidden

in your seventh grandmother’s womb

remember

remember the pag-ong

the turtles you curiously followed

examining their curves and maps

scars along their backs

great stories turned folklore

remember

kaligay, cowries you’d pick

on windy early mornings

while the tide took their sleep

way into the ocean’s belly

rest their playful sighs

in seafoam greens and yellows

remember

the stars that dove from the sky

seeking a fantasy of love

that would be met by the sea

we called them uni

you thought they were angry

but they were just lonely

sad that the ocean ate their fire

remember

ta igid ti baybay

the sand that kissed your cheeks

into warmth

the salt on your feet

cut from playful coral reefs

the caves where you danced

fell in love with their songs

remember

remember

you are sacred

danom

aniwa’as

sabong

apoy

water

spirit

flower

fire

malagipmo?

obing nag’apo idiay bulan

remember

I may look young but

I am tired and old

Wiser

When I say I am tired

What I mean is

I am aware of my body

More than ever before

I can feel trauma in my chest

Womb, hips, back

I can feel heart-mending energy

Revolving from shoulder to shoulder

It is much too apparent to ignore

Like before

When I’d down cups of whiskey

Thrash about on dance floors

Fall onto lips and dicks

Searching for acceptance when

My spirit was lost and wavering

Washed up by Whitening soap

My diasporic dysphoria

Was and is still painful

Sometimes I miss that reckless gurl

Prancing about in ignorance

Nothing hurt

Because I didn’t know I was hurting

That I’ve been hurting

For centuries

And when the night came

When I was rattled by the dark,

body sprawled upon the Earth,

pleading with my ancestors

Just take me home

I am ready to die

I am ready to leave this place

It was there I learned

forgive me, insan

when I say I need space

16 years later, still I want room

it’s hard to breathe thunder

     when lightning is all I’ve ever blown

into a sand castle we built on an overcast morning

insan,

i know you all too well,  I’m afraid

the shameful reminders of who I am

     if I choose recklessly, aimlessly

insan.

     everything you do, say, be

     is evidence of this portals’ failures

i love you. all of you.

your faultlines

waiting to crumble,

earthquakes waking,

               mountains heartaches.

Insan,

the bulan is watching over us

     guiding the angin’s path to freedom

i push your dalluyon away from me

because your wounds are too fresh like my own

     swallowing our pride is much tastier

     than admitting we are twins of mischief,

               pain, trauma,

misconnection,

reflections.

insan, I don’t know how to swim in the karayan

where the nuang drinks their danom

and we wash our bannog saka

I can only swim in ambivalence, there

I am certain that wondering hurts less

than stolen truth and forgotten legacies

insan,

how can we bridge our worlds with grace?

our keys were buried long ago under ancient niog trees

insan,

pinsan,

casinsin,

     let’s sing under the mango tree.

     there we can write our stories

on leaves of saba

and share a glass of basi

to ease our Spirits’ longing

---

dictionary? :)

insan, pinsan, casinsin: cousin

bulan: full moon

angin: wind

dalluyon: wave(s) (ie. ocean)

karayan: river

nuang: water buffalo

danom: water

bannog: tired

saka: feet

niog: coconut

saba: banana

i chose not to receive

my littlest nephew just born

into the storm of our family’s diaspora

freshly delivered from the motherland

a reminder of generations trauma

our parents lost culture and survival

seemingly destroyed

forced to forget when

our mothers and fathers

set foot on this stolen land

little one

do you still see our ancestors

when we spin plastic cosmos above your cradle?

little one

do you still hear our language of the ocean

from the shells that line our walls as decoration?

little one

does your heart beat

to the drums of our volcanoes calling?

do your feet kick

to the longing of our lost islands?

little one

i want to love you, receive you

i am scared to hold you

i want so much for you to be the star

whose tongue won’t favor bread over rice

even if our own families say it’s okay to blend

halo-halo

that is what we are

lost in a  mass of ice queen water

crushed and sprinkled with

cute shaped sugar sculptures

red beans and over sweetened jackfruit

it’s hard to remember

what we used to taste like

how we used to feel

see, hear, smell

love

little one

i see seven generations after me

tenderly caring for each other with

our recreated languages and dances

two-spirited children and parents

all our spirits colliding and loving

as one water, one ocean

little one

i will visit you someday soon

say hello to you and all the ancestors

who came back to this world through you

little one

we can remember together

the medicines our greatest grandmothers

  I see tired satisfaction

Scrolling across your chest, Lola

Eyes brimming with infinite gratitude

Grief in our palms when we sit

Hand in hand, knees to knees

Lola, you are the Moon’s reflection

Your coconut brown skin

Shimmering brighter than the Sun

Collar bones deep as volcanoes’, longing

For sleep and caresses from

Ehekatl’s taunting, trailing kisses

On each joint and wrinkle

Lola, you are Queen of the Bantay

Steadfast, unwavering, patient as stone

When I carefully ask for your affection

Your afternoon sighs give way for

Years kept stardust in crater wombs glory

“Anak. Morena, my darling” she says.

“Lola, Grandma…” There are no words.

Forgotten tongue stolen from centuries of

Genocide wrapped in the scarf I gifted

Her for the decade I hadn’t seen her

Lola, forgive me. Us. This world is a hurricane

We’ve been swimming in the eye of a storm

Who has convinced us to forget our stories

Lose sight of our memories

Build fortresses on our backs,

burying our souls into drowning Earth.

Lola, today we rise together

at sunset and fly at dawn

when the rooster sings for freedom.

inang,

I will never forget

how it feels

to breathe in your suffering

your sacrifice

your frustrated love

at twenty one

you had dreams of stardom

married young

rooted me in the ocean,

carried across the sea

you, a young woman

hardly settled in Amerika

still wandering your youth

all that passion

re-centered

on your daughter-son

at twenty one

I accepted my queerness

Stepped out of a closet

I never consented to hide in

Masked the bakla you can’t bear to see

I wanted to protect you

Your sacrifices

Be the star

You always wanted to be

but mother, you have always been a star

I have always been

a flower grasping for sunlight but

I prefer ocean moonlight and

I’ve confused myself

tryna walk your path to freedom

our freedom

is

interconnected

looks like the songs

I birth at dawn

that you may never hear

the stories I paint

of our forgotten kulture

the love I share

with families I’ve found

in spaces I do and don’t want you

to exist in

at twenty five

I am oh so very tired rest is not enough

I feel I’ve lived four lifetimes

I’ve entered and fallen

Out of too many broken closets

Gateways

Portals

Mirrors

My spirits are both ancient and young

Do you feel the same way, Inang?

Let’s just live in a bahay kubo

Sleep on bamboo

Harvest eggplants and mangos

I can only imagine

That loving Mother Earth together

Will bring us just a little bit closer

To loving ourselves better

Inang,

You’re nearly half a century

Me, a quarter century wiser

Orbiting your periphery

Tryna find a moment

When I can enter your atmosphere

and maybe you’ll let me love you