The Dead
The Dead
I.
I wish to call you mommy, mom, mama, nanay;
Or whatever it is that’s Filipino tradition
That I’ve been trying to do for lots of years.
But let’s not try counting now—
It’s a waste of time.
And we both know it doesn’t really matter; do we?
It’s like ol’ feudal days:
Just because the damn “lord” owns the land, he, the serf, is the slave; isn’t that tomfoolery?
But I still feel something when I see little children
Walking hand in hand with their mama, nanay, mother, et cetera.
You gave birth; and I came out.
That’s better. Simple as that.
But we can’t blame little animals look for the old.
Perhaps they feel a little indebted
There’s a sense of history
I want to find you
But every time I have the time I refuse
I’m thinking: you also have the time
Yet you simply cannot.
And that makes us the same:
To each his own.
You made me what I’m today
Or, to be subtle, you helped shape me
Back then, I was made to believe
It was family business, your father’s business
And, by it, we’ll also rake the profits.
I remember we met three times:
In my birthday as little child;
Grade six and first year high school
The last made an impression—I waited.
Years went on
Until your memory became an euphemism
I loved you
My lola says you’re sweet, kind, loving
And all those sugars made to trick kids
My aunt tells me you had to do it
My father orders: honor your mother and remember her.
Without them saying, I once knew.
But longing makes the heart cold.
II.
You told me one time:
Perhaps we’ll meet again
Talk casually
Like two strangers,
An old lady, young man
And it’s a date
That’s the best for us, you said.
In that breezy day, I thought you were joking, because you smiled,
Although you uttered the words simply, gently, painfully.
I didn’t figure quickly.
III.
Now, each passing day
I long
I mourn
I love
I wait
Like a dead body
Waiting for the vultures
Or, perhaps, better, if it’s an old lady
