Eight Poems

Brown Girl Dreams of Arson
 
 
Yesterday I dreamed empires are falling again. This time it was under
the weight of climate reports nobody bothers to read and
online petition signed with burner accounts. I dreamed America melted
like butter left too long on a hot bed of corn kernels
in a plastic cup sold by the street vendor at four-thirty in the afternoon.
We all stood around the steaming tub of yellow sweetness,
licking our spoons, saying, ay naku, finally. I dreamed America choked
on its own paperwork because it tried to deport the moon
and issued a memo banning feelings after five. I dreamed America caught fire
in a Jollibee parking lot, then tried to sue the flame
and lost the case. I dreamed America smelled like burnt processed cheese
from a takeout gas station convenience store.
Let all the little people brown and black dream in the language of collapse.
Let all the little people brown and black dream while
peeling garlic with a vengeance. Let all the little people brown and black
dream of saints with singed hems and mouths full of matchsticks.
In my dream, the war generals had to work double shifts in call centers
where no one said their names right. Borders dissolved into rivers
and no one drowned. We made rafts out of untranslatable words
and let them drift toward morning. I worked the soil of my life
while humming the funeral dirge of colonial grammar. I burned
the coloniser’s flag, used the ashes to fertilise the herbs
on my windowsill. Let all the little people brown and black dream of laughter
that scorches. Let them dream of saints who cuss.
Let us all wake up to check the expiry dates of empires and see that
they’ve all gone sour. The world is ending, it’s been ending
a long time. Either way, I have dishes to do. Some days, I wear my grief
like an apron. Other days, I wear it like lipstick. Either way, I leave
marks. There is sauce on the ceiling and it is holy. My rebellion is in leftovers,
in long phone calls with my mother, in watching the sun rise
while rinsing out the rice cooker. My revolution is a spoonful of salted egg,
is bathwater saved for flushing, is knowing where the termites hide.
Let presidents vanish into spam folders. Let the landlords tremble
at clogged sinks. Let the colonisers reincarnate as shit that
hardens into neglect even flies won’t touch them. Let all the little people
brown and black dream while their backs ache from commuting,
while their rage overboils and bubbles down the sides. Let all the little people
brown and black dream of arson in the shape of a lullaby.
Let us set the world on fire and still have time to finish the laundry.
One day, I will throw a feast with stolen time and rescued recipes.
I will serve joy with vinegar. I will laugh so loud the empire chokes
on its own importance. Let all the little people brown and black dream like gods who survived the burning, with one eye open and both hands lit.

***


 

RAGE INCANTATION
 
 
after “The Nines” form by Anastacia-Reneé
 
 
I. The Interrogation
 
What is rage but justice with its hands tied
behind its back? What is rage but the heart’s
refusal to lie down? What is rage but hope
in work clothes rolling up its sleeves?
What is rage but the body's translation
of everything that should not be?
Tell me: is rage the problem or
is rage the answer we’re afraid to speak?
IS RAGE THE ANSWER WE’RE AFRAID TO SPEAK
 
 
II. The Naming
 
They call our rage terrorism when we remember
their names and when we count the dead. They
call our rage complicated when we document all
murders. They call our rage one-sided when we refuse
to die quietly. They call our rage inflammatory when
we photograph the flames. They call our rage dangerous
when we teach our children history. They call our rage
hatred when we love ourselves enough to live
WE LOVE OURSELVES ENOUGH TO LIVE
 
 
III. The Containment
 
First they tell you to be peaceful
as if we started this war. Then they tell you
to be patient, as if time heals genocide. They suggest
you try understanding, as if a small nation
hasn't tried for seventy-five years. They recommend
dialogue, as if bombs care about conversation. They propose
negotiations, as if humanity is up for debate. They extend
sympathy, as if sorry can resurrect dead children.
SORRY WON’T RESURRECT DEAD CHILDREN
 
 
 
 
IV. The Migration
 
Rage travels in the bloodstream of every exile’s daughters
Rage travels in the fists of every exile's sons
Rage crosses checkpoints hidden in grandmother’s prayers
Rage smuggles itself in lullabies and recipe cards
Rage hitchhikes on satellites and fibre optic cables
Rage stows away in the belly of every ship bringing food supplies
Rage marches with every demonstration in every capital
Rage multiplies in every voice teaching truth
RAGE MULTIPLIES IN EVERY VOICE TEACHING TRUTH
 
 
V. The Knowing
 
Rage teaches you that nice will not save your people
Rage teaches you that reasonable is a luxury you cannot afford
Rage teaches you to count everything: the living, the dead, the disappeared
Rage teaches you that your enemy’s comfort requires your silence
Rage teaches you the difference between peace and submission
Rage teaches you that freedom is not negotiable
Rage teaches you that memory is more dangerous than weapons
Rage teaches you that our existence is the greatest threat to empire
OUR EXISTENCE IS THE GREATEST THREAT TO EMPIRE
 
 
VI. The Alchemy
 
Turn rage into research: know their names,
know their funders. Turn rage into resistance:
your survival is your rebellion. Turn rage
into art: make beauty they cannot bomb.
Turn rage into prophecy: speak the future
they fear the most. Turn rage into wildfire
spreading faster than they can contain you.
Turn rage into rivers of your becoming
TURN RAGE INTO RIVERS OF YOUR BECOMING
 
 
VII. The Insistence
 
Rage demands you name the systems. Rage demands you
remember that your liberation is connected to everyone
else’s. Rage demands you refuse the false choice between
your survival and theirs. Rage demands you recognise
that your oppressor’s fear is evidence of your power
Rage demands you stop being grateful for crumbs
from your own table. Rage demands you know that
your rage is righteous, necessary, and holy.
YOUR RAGE IS RIGHTEOUS, NECESSARY, AND HOLY
 
 
VIII. The Inheritance
 
The rage of every Palestinian grandfather, asking why
The rage of every Palestinian grandmother, asking why
The rage of every Palestinian father, asking why
The rage of every Palestinian mother, asking why
The rage of every Palestinian brother, asking why
The rage of every Palestinian sister, asking why
The rage of every Palestinian child, asking why
The rage of every Palestinian child, asking why
THE RAGE OF EVERY PALESTINIAN CHILD ASKING WHY
 
 
IX. The Prophecy
 
This rage will outlive every politician this rage will outlast
every weapon this rage will outgrow every prison this rage
will outrun every border this rage will outsmart every law
this rage will outshine every lie this rage will outroot every
wall this rage will outspeak every silence this rage will
remember every erasure this rage will tear the throat of
every lie this rage will claw through every wall this rage
will break teeth this rage will outdream every nightmare
THIS RAGE WILL OUTDREAM EVERY NIGHTMARE

***

what could I possibly offer this ruptured world
 
 
& how do I explain how to burrow inside this brown body. this halfway house in a village overrun with tangled feelings & dreams that remain dreams.
 
& how long have I been here, fallen face down dissolving like sugar on someone’s tongue. my ribs a barricade to every yowl I have ever let loose & lost.
 
& how many more aches am I neighbours with, how many more thirsts, how many more woes. if I could leave, if I could tear myself away from my skin, would I. if I could fly, if I could explode out of my lungs and into the ether, would I. if I can untether my bones, would I.
 
& how should you love a brown body. how should you love.

***

Let my joy make the empire nervous
 
 
after Chen Chen
 
 
Brown girl with a bayong of dreams seeks part-time position in building
          new mythologies from recycled elder ambitions. Must be remote.
Must pay in laughter, rice, or revolution. Can offer: deep
          knowledge of midnight crying, ancestral dreaming
and staying soft in a house full of sharp things. Not fluent in obedience
          but will try. Has a minor in ignoring middle-aged Titas.
Has a PhD in “I miss you so.” Looking to rent space in someone’s quiet life.
          Open to sharing tea, teeth-brushing playlists, childhood
wounds. Not open to men who say you’re not like other girls while holding
          a guitar they refuse to learn how to tune. You may know me
from such roles as Unpaid Emotional Laborer #1, Group Chat Ender,
          and That Girl Who Still Writes Her Feelings Down Like It’s 1997.
My CV includes: President of Tinola Fan Club. Grieving in the shower
   so the ghosts don’t get lonely. Holding contradictions
like a full grocery bag with one busted handle. I believe that red lipstick
   is a superpower and you can’t convince me otherwise.
Every time I’ve been called brave for simply existing, I was merely
          reapplying tint to my lips. I am fluent in silence. I am loud
in Tagalog. I am soft in translation. I am not sorry.
   My mother collects plastic containers, near-death stories,
and resentment designed to make your teeth ache until
   you’re dead. My father collects water in his knees and
bank statements from 1989. My weakness is wanting to write it all down
          before it disappears. My strength is knowing I will write it all
down before it disappears. One time I applied for a job that asked,
          “How well do you handle failure?” I said I let it braid my hair.
Let my joy make the empire nervous. Let it arrive with twelve arms
          each one cradling a different statue of the Sto. Niño.
Let it wear a crown of guyabano skins and let it birth honey from wounds
          no one believed was sacred. Let it feed the gods spoonfuls.
My joy is unsubsidised, unlicensed, unsolicited. It wears too much
          perfume and sings karaoke badly. It dances in the kitchen
with no witnesses. It survives the peso’s decline and the peso’s mother’s
          decline. It makes lumpia for people who do not deserve it.
Let my joy make the empire nervous. My joy is the punchline
          colonialism didn’t see coming. It’s my Lola praying the rosary
while watching boxing. My joy shows up late and sweaty,
          carrying sweet taho. It tells you it loves you in leftovers.
Somewhere in the archipelago of my body, a small nation is still
          resisting. The capital city is my stomach. Its anthem:
that sound your belly makes after laughter. I live in the province of Maybe.
          My flag is woven from banig and secondhand rage.
The national bird is a brown girl trying again. A middle child of joy.
          Let me sing the national anthem of utang na loob.
In this economy of coping mechanisms and curated feeds, I am investing
          in breath. I am investing in my ancestors’ stubborn blood.
Let my joy make the empire nervous. I am holding stock in everything
          that doesn’t make sense but still feels true. One day
I will own a home. It will be filled with secondhand chairs,
   handwritten notes, a doorbell that says, Come in
you unhealed heathen. The welcome mat will read: We are all a little
   broken, but there will always be merienda. Let my joy
make the empire nervous. Dear hiring manager: I regret to inform you
          that I am no longer available for positions that require me
to dim myself. Instead, I’ll be running a small business teaching brown girls
           how to scream monstrously into the wind.
Please find my references below: a sari-sari store at dusk. A jeepney
          with a neon sign: basta driver sweet lover.
A sky that smells like garlic and grief. A kitchen that never stays
          the same shade of blue for as long as I can remember.
I plant a garden in my throat and name every flower still here. I teach
          the moon how to dance in slippers. My joy rides
into town on a kalabaw with fireworks strapped to its ribs. The hem
         of its skirt soaked in riverwater and saints.
Let my joy make the empire nervous. Let it arrive with no warning.
          Let it ruin the bloodline. Let it return every lost girl to herself.

***
 

and what shall we do, we who did not die

          after June Jordan


I wonder if we’re okay in the future / today we explore the neighbourhood as we settle in our new place / we carried a small bag of seedless grapes / careful not to jostle as we walked the length of the wet market / we wanted a taste so badly / hundreds of miles away / under the canopy of a torn blanket / a father cradles his dead child in his arms / the wailing erupts from his throat / his body now a crater of names / we stopped to watch an old man gut a fish / while the wind played with our hair / some children will never be around to play / never be around to sing / never be around to be told to go to bed / everywhere today seemed bright with promise /asters sat in a green bucket half submerged in water / salted eggs dipped in fuchsia glowed hot under the sun / the neon lights of the convenience store glared in broad daylight / hundreds of miles away / everyone’s faces are covered in ash / and skeleton dust and bomb filth / the lady who sold us a snake plant said we didn’t have the nature of someone / who can take care of something alive / you will have dirt on your hands / she laughed / I didn’t have the heart to tell her / isn’t it all hallowed ground / this life / the weight of elsewhere / pressed against us / everywhere bright / everywhere broken / how can we keep our tenderness / all this long while / will it always hurt

We bite on the fruit
our mouth feeling so empty
and absent of stone
 


***
 

and what shall we do, we who did not die

          after June Jordan

I wonder if we’re okay in the future / today we explore the neighbourhood as we settle in our new place / we carried a small bag of seedless grapes / careful not to jostle as we walked the length of the wet market / we wanted a taste so badly / hundreds of miles away / under the canopy of a torn blanket / a father cradles his dead child in his arms / the wailing erupts from his throat / his body now a crater of names / we stopped to watch an old man gut a fish / while the wind played with our hair / some children will never be around to play / never be around to sing / never be around to be told to go to bed / everywhere today seemed bright with promise /asters sat in a green bucket half submerged in water / salted eggs dipped in fuchsia glowed hot under the sun / the neon lights of the convenience store glared in broad daylight / hundreds of miles away / everyone’s faces are covered in ash / and skeleton dust and bomb filth / the lady who sold us a snake plant said we didn’t have the nature of someone / who can take care of something alive / you will have dirt on your hands / she laughed / I didn’t have the heart to tell her / isn’t it all hallowed ground / this life / the weight of elsewhere / pressed against us / everywhere bright / everywhere broken / how can we keep our tenderness / all this long while / will it always hurt
 
We bite on the fruit
our mouth feeling so empty
and absent of stone

***

and what shall we do, we who did not die

          after June Jordan

I wonder if we’re okay in the future / today we were underwater where / nothing hurt / we were fish moving with our tiny bones / I confess I wanted to be held / by the sea forever / but we ended up swimming into the meshes / pulled / pulled / pulled up into the light / we saw a hand emerge / and followed the eclipse / wrist to the elbow / elbow to shoulder / shoulder to neck / up / up / up / into eyes we knew too well / the net dissolves / then we have feet again / this is the ground / this is the bottle you almost broke yesterday / this is the tub full of griefwater / this is your life / this is a utility knife with a number two blade / this is the stem of a missing orchid / this is your unwashed shirt / this is your life / I suppose we’ll begin again / all our efforts to disappear thwarted / by all our other selves / I suppose we will make do / it is fortunately noon / this is the kitchen counter with an unpeeled orange / this is a mug with a bouquet of pencils / this is a letter / this is our life
 
 
We will keep trying
on this body persisting
until it makes sense
 

***

and what shall we do, we who did not die

          after June Jordan

I wonder if we’re okay in the future / today we were sobbing shoulders shaking / hair a wet black veil we kept pulling on / what a wreck to have loved like this / what a wretch / here is a kettle holding the last bouquet / water almost gone / isn’t every brittle stem a sign / we should start over / we were wailing for all the neighbours to hear / we would have been here all night / if it wasn’t for the tiny blue flower / escaped from all the rot / oh how we inched towards it / how we moved ever so slowly / a tired old worm on this warm earth / a widow of our own making and unmaking
 
I touched its petals
praying it wouldn’t crumble
please and please and please
 
 
***



Brown Girl Theology
 
I’ve become my elders, there is no other way to say it.
I’ve opened my cabinet and an avalanche of Tupperware
 
lids that no longer fit anything cascaded into my arms.
I picked one up, green and warped at one edge, a slow
 
bend from microwave fever—years of reheated sinigang,
rice from birthdays and nothing days, and too-late dinners
 
eaten standing up. I tried to find its partner, a once-clear
plastic tub now cloudy, a faint halo of lasagna red like
 
the memory of fire. Hairline crack near the lip. I still keep it.
Keep them all, all the things in my life I praise without
 
prejudice, like the single earring I can’t throw away, praise be.
Like the stretch marks on my hips that curve like a long river,
 
praise be. Like the sound of my laugh that surprises me, yes,
let me praise me. There must have been a version of myself
 
who once believed I had to be a match in order to be loved.
Who learned that usefulness was the rent you pay for being kept.
 
No one told the girl in this brown body that a thing can be
cracked and still carry. Praise be the crooked corners of
 
my heart, which is a drawer full of almosts. Praise be
the misfits, the warped, the too-stained. I praise the green
 
lid that no longer fits and I press it down anyway, as I have
pressed into so many rooms where I did not quite belong,
 
pressed my palms against dresses that never sat right, pressed
my voice into a pitch that might pass. I’ve courted joy with both
 
hands, willing to take it however it comes. I’ve saved chocolate
cake for hard days, and I’ve loved a man across oceans who says
 
my name and tells me it tastes safe in his mouth. Oh, green lid
I raise to the light, you imperfect oracle. My hands look through
 
you like a window, the way my elders learned how to tell time.
Look at everything you have held. Look how I am fed.