Magdaragat, p.17
Magdaragat, page 17
His attention being divided allows me more time to lip sync to The Goddess of Lost Things. I just can’t sing. Despite my karaoke lineage. Even in the hopes Anagolay might leave Dumakulem for me. Never mind that she’s got to be proper polyamorous, maybe more so than anyone else. Because the world is so full of large and tiny losses in every given moment — and takings siya must attend as well — Anagolay’s busy all time long. Maybe too busy to notice my overtures, but hopefully also too busy to notice how often I lose things. And, omg, I lose things and temporarily misplace them almost as often as anyone buys anything solid that came out of a mountain (I say solid to avoid dealing with power and skip to the next part: it doesn’t work).
I do love crystals. At least there’s that, so when I buy crystals I’m taking a little shot at Dumakulem. I don’t know how the crystals feel about it, first of all the whole extraction thing, the people who belong to them, and then the whole complex of the journey from mountain to final purchase thing, with each attendant extraction on the way, then finally the whole me using them to take shots at my nemesis thing, but that’s just how it is: if you’re a crystal and in my apartment, you’re a soldier in the battle I’m waging against the Guardian of Mountains.
Or is it that I’m inviting Dumakulem into my home with every crystal? By caring for them: inviting him to do his work right here in my living room, writing his little crystal odes to the Deity of What’s Lost. Each one of them, dammit, cradled, turning. In my actual lover’s hands. Caressed by Mahal’s tattoos: story touching story. Catching, reflecting, prisming each angle of light, basking in their wonderstruck attention. Mahal, who might — how can I blame them — be in love with both: Guardian of Mountains and Goddess of Lost Things.
Rachel Evangeline Chiong
Desidido
Desidido’s sweater smelled like
bay leaves buried in its wrinkles
Receipts tucked into soft pockets
crinkling like fresh rice paper
Desidido’s apron smelled like
canola oil caressing its corners
Brown grease staining its white ocean
clustered like continents adrift
At her restaurant, while the winter wind howled
customers hung their coats on hooks that glistened like polished trophies
On weeknights, Desidido sat behind the bar,
shrouded in a cavern of licorice-coloured bottles
The ends of her lips like a beckoning finger
curled into a smile
On weekends, Desidido sat behind the mixer,
watching bands come and go like passing clouds
Their melodies like a blossoming lily
unfurled into a song
At her restaurant, while the winter wind howled,
Ate and Kuya held hands across a counter that shimmered like a mirror
On weeknights, Desidido stood beside the tables,
healing break-up pains with halo-halo
The heartache like a bruised knee
soothed into a sob
On weekends, Desidido stood beside the fryer,
lumpia laughing in a golden bubble bath,
Her Tagalog playing tag-a-long until it burst and
belted into a joke
At her restaurant, while the winter wind howled,
she kindled a dream in the hearth that flickered like a star
Desidido’s apron smelled like
A salty spray an ocean away
mixed with muggy daydreams
in a warmer country
Desidido’s sweater smelled like
camia kisses and fresh pine,
fixed with a steaming Milo,
on a windy day
Ariel Dela Cruz
in little manila
little manila is the smell of smoke
clouds crafted by working hands that billow
with traces of lechon and isaw
is the sound of cackling titas
carrying rustling no frills bags
while waiting for the bus
the same bus that brought me home
from that mostly white, all-girls catholic school
that I commuted to for an hour each day for a better education
the same bus where my classmate turned to me saying
“this is where all the nannies get off”
the same bus where I learned
that another word for kadiri is nanny
is mother
is ate
is lola
here, debt is another word for living
is the way she tries to shove more gulay into my bag
when I tell her to keep the change on the sidewalk
little manila is the sound of an empty tip jar
because a tip is an impossibility
and a missing paycheque is just a thursday
but I’ve learned that a missing paycheque is also a promise
is tinola from your neighbour when the bills are too tight
is a protest at the bathurst-wilson parkette
is the feeling of makibaka in the air
is knowing that you are always beholden
that another word for beholden is ingat
ingat is the last word you say to each other
before leaving little manila
Deann Louise C. Nardo
Mimosa pudica
Have you ever heard of the plant
Mimosa pudica?
It has compound leaves that fold inward
and droop when touched or shaken
Like hands touching in prayer.
It is defending itself from possible harm,
From grazing animals who could eat it
by disappearing into the greenery.
Have you heard of it?
As a kid, I would spend hours just sitting by a patch,
touching them, waiting for them to reopen.
No matter how harsh or how gentle I touch,
They always hide.
It’s called Makahiya in my language,
The shy plant. Others even call it the shame plant.
So, imagine a little plant that when touched,
hides inside its own reassuring hug.
diaspora thrives in memory
The first time I rode a plane, I was ten. It was a long ride, the food was meh and I missed everyone I had left behind. At the same time, I loved being in the sky, floating with the clouds.
It was thrilling, like I was doing something naughty, naughty like defying the laws of gravity.
Close
Open
The first time I set foot in Canada was at the Toronto Pearson Airport. I stepped out of the automatic double-doors and into the December chill. My tender, tropical cheeks felt like they were sliced by the winter air.
Close
Open
The first time I had stretchy, melted cheese was at Pizza Hut. I was always amazed by the commercials back home. We only had salty queso, and when I finally had that first pizza here, I couldn’t stop giggling because the stretchy cheese just kept going on and on and on and
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Open
The first time I was called a racial slur was at a bus stop, by two little white boys. They were my neighbours, brothers, aged five and seven. They used a word that didn’t even represent my nationality. I so badly wanted to correct their mistake. They told me to go back where I came from.
Close
Close
The first time my father took me shopping was at Value Village. I had no winter clothes to speak of, so we went through the coats section. I could choose by era, by style, by level of wear and tear. I could mix and match a ski jacket with a baseball cap, or a fancy velvet coat with a toque. I’ve never had this many options before!
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Open
My first day of school in Canada was in a small elementary school in Ontario called St. Bernards. It was winter. I was wearing the stuff I bought at Value Village with my dad. I was wearing a pageboy cap and an ankle-length brown wool jacket. I looked straight out of the Great Depression.
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The first time I saw what my half-sister looked like was when my dad was at work. My mama and I were cleaning a closet when she found a shoebox, hidden on a high shelf. It was full of letters and photos of people I had never seen before. There was a photo of a little girl who looked vaguely familiar, familial even.
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Close
The first time I saw my father beg with tears in his eyes was in the middle of the night. My mama was sleeping beside me on the bottom bunk and he crept beside her. He was crying and begging as quietly as he could. I was facing the wall and closed my eyes tighter, not wanting to give myself away. She didn’t respond. He sulked out of the room. I wanted so badly to call out to him.
Close
Close
Close
The first time I lived in a house with anyone but my family was with a bunch of strangers in a giant house. We cooked and ate meals together. They helped my mama find a job. They had a basement full of clothes and stuff, like a mini–Value Village I could shop in!
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The first time I cried on the phone was when I called my dad on a payphone in this giant house. I cried and told him I loved him and missed him. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t come pick us up, we were in the same town. And we just got there.
Close
Close
The first time I saw snow — it was through giant windows of my aunt’s house, like a live-action large screen TV. I only ever saw it in cartoons, like the episode where Bugs Bunny met the Abominable Snowman. I had to go outside to taste it to believe it.
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The first snowman my brother and I ever made was with my dad. Although he was a civil engineer back home, he had no idea how to construct one. So, improvising, he took out a big bag of recycling filled with bottles of Coke, boxes for waffles and pizza, and said, “Just pack around it!” The snow wasn’t packy enough, but we made it happen. I put my green scarf around the snowman’s thick neck and stepped back with my brother. He looked like Jabba the Hutt. So, when my classmates asked if I wanted to build a snowman during recess at school one day, I asked them, “Where do I get the recycling bag?”
Close
Open
There’s always a first time for everything, right?
There were experiments run by Dr. Monica Gagliano, an evolutionary ecologist from the University of Western Australia. They made a swing that held a potted Mimosa pudica and they would drop the plant unexpectedly. Pull, drop. Pull, drop. Pull, drop. The first and second time, they always close. After they find out that the same move does not hurt them, they stay open.
Like the Mimosa pudica, diaspora thrives in memory.
I close
I close
&
I transform
My experiences, my traumas, my emotions, My memories
By learning, processing, and sharing.
Sometimes it takes more work,
Sometimes I hold my leaves
touching in prayer a little longer
Sometimes I hug myself a little tighter
Sometimes I remind myself that I’ve defied gravity before.
I am cautious
And I learn
And I remember.
To stay open
I won’t remain a closed, shy plant forever
I won’t remain a shame plant forever
I stay open
Open
Open
Open
Carolyn Fe
I clearly remember
I clearly remember
Over fifty-five years ago
The day you welcomed me to your circle.
I clearly remember
We were children then
The laughter, the staring and standing back.
I clearly remember
Walking into the classroom
The slow-motion turnaround
The eyes wide open, mouths aghast
The bullies giggling and whispering
How the room suddenly smelled stinky
Like shit, they say.
In the lunchroom sitting alone with my Tupperware of adobo and rice and spoon and fork
Backs turned toward me
Scraps of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, ham and cheese and iceberg lettuce
Flying past me, some even hitting my face
Staining my dress.
My favourite dress that reminded me of home, so colourful and bright in its rich patterns.
Stained.
I clearly remember my first crush
Oh he was a handsome blue-eyed blond
Taking my breath away every time he passed by.
When one day he finally noticed me
Him smiling, looking straight at me
My world no longer lonely
My world no longer pushed aside
My world of hope
Dashed
When he tripped
Me
I, falling flat on my tummy
Knocking the wind out of me
My hands breaking the fall, knees and palms scraped on the schoolyard’s icy gravel
My favourite dress soiled. Ruined.
Forever hidden in the back of my closet.
As a reminder.
And again
Left alone.
I clearly remember
The laughter, the pointing, the staring and standing back
Walking into the classroom
The slow-motion turnaround
Eyes wide open, mouths aghast
The bullies giggling
I jumped right back to my feet
From the thumbtacks they left for me to sit on
My chair
Smudged with mud.
I clearly remember
Saying to myself
Welcome to your new life
You will have to fend for yourself
To stand up on your own
To keep holding your head high no matter what
All this …
Until today
As you run toward me
Bright-eyed
Arms wide open
I can only surmise your smile under your mask
That only old friends can be
Until today
When I put my hand out
To stop you from coming closer
Because
I clearly remember
You.
Rafael Palma
Lunch Box
It is steaming when placed inside,
stir-fried beans with
a palette of onions and garlic,
sauced with soy, packaged
in a treasured ware, for you.
To eat and take home,
or forget later.
Before putting it in the glass bowl
with a suctioned plastic lid,
my hands guide each
stir of the ladle in the pan,
rearranging them carefully.
Each vegetable and pinch of seasoning
carefully cast in its rightful place.
As they bubble and steam,
announcing their conclusion.
It is received by the senses,
like directors in the front row,
the nose guiding the tongue,
who inspects with a small teaspoon,
checking for minor adjustments.
Now the dish is set,
clutched in the branded, suctioned container,
put inside a tote bag,
sealed, and secured.
I hurry to drive it to you, knowing full well
you have eaten nothing
but a bagel for breakfast.
For one afternoon,
a pumpkin soup.
In a late-night turn,
fried tofu with hoisin sauce.
For this last one,
using a rectangular Tupperware,
with a sky-blue elastic band
fastened in the lid,
with two matching clasps
on each long side
I cooked bean sprouts,
cabbage, and carrots,
julienned roughly, all bundled
in a dumpling wrapper, then fried.
All neatly placed like freshly processed logs,
golden brown, crisp, and perfect.
I hurried off with a borrowed car,
with a warm closed container
on the passenger seat.
Hoping that I get there in time,
so that on the first bite,
the wrapper,
fried to perfection,
would echo with a loud crunch.
Every dish was an offering.
Instead of a letter bringing a confession,
I hoped that each meal,
each ingredient cooked carefully,
conveyed something that resembles warmth.
As you opened the lid, the message rose,
steam and smell in congregation,
melted and reduced over time.
Hoping each bite
is just as filling
as every time I filled a lunch box
and brought it to you.
Yet those lunches,
skipped by sleeping in,
were not enough to fill you.
Wishing my food
could never let you forget
you missed them.
Foolish of me, to think that a few meals
would be enough.
What you gave back to me
