Home is where we are

And hopefully we find ourselves
in a city apartment we can afford,
With windows large enough to welcome
the sunlight to saunter in
and join us for breakfast;
We'd bask in these slow, 
quiet Saturday mornings
advertised by gentrified developers
whose names sound too stiff
to our provincial tongues

Never mind the down-size, 
as long as there is space
to place our jars of salt, grain, and sugar,
our books and knickknacks,
maybe a twin-sized mattress,
and if we’re lucky — a pet bed —
We can call it home

Here every square inch will be maximised
to hold room for things
lost to a realtor’s eye;
All awkward cuts and corners will be filled
with unmeasured banter 
foreign to an eavesdropping outsider;
In a familiar flick, shelves and cupboards 
will become portals
to multiverses —
Inviting friends and other lifeforms
to the warmth of our kitchen
thick with the fragrance of squash
simmered in coconut milk and shrimp paste

But while we’re still saving
for that downpayment,
I don’t really mind
repairing the weathered flat
doing its best to comfort us 
for the hours lost in Metro Manila commute.
Maybe rearranging the furniture
can cheer up the house gnomes
who keep us company
when the other is timezones away.
And what about the regular calls
we receive from elderly neighbours
eager to sell the day’s catch and wares —
Who would now open the awning for them
and beckon them home?

Really, my love, we don't need much.
It is enough
I get to dream with you
on that single-bed safely rafting us
through torrents of life transitions.
Home is where we are.

Our Name

Borrowed, but very much loved.
Handpicked.
Mended together.
Worn on many occasions.
It has become skin,
a layer of protection,
or maybe a warm blanket of consolation
reminding me of its previous owner --
A person of three names

I remember her:
Straight-laced goody-two-shoes
Afraid of breaking a teacup.
Looking through the cracks of her ivory tower,
she pined for freedom

I remember her:
Pilgrim without home —
Searching for an unknown shrine,
Her life a never-ending walk
trailing blood from her cracked heels

I remember her:
Child of anger and resentment
Her wails muffled;
Longing for the warmth of acknowledgement,
but buried under bleached blankets,

I often think about them these days
Are they happy now?
Did the hurting stop?
Or am I too numb now to feel
the pins and prickles
when I have woven their lives with mine?

When you call us
with your honeyed mouth —
Our names now intertwined;
Each syllable a binding spell
recognizing our three lives as one —
Even I could not tell the difference.

Medical Jitters

Today, I found out that my MRI was meant to rule out an intercranial tumor. My doctor probably didn’t want me to panic, so he did not include the initial diagnosis in the laboratory write-up. Alas, my healthcare provider insisted to know. I had to call my doctor and explain that he needs to resend the write-up.

It was a bit of a shock – particularly at the part where I had to tell the medical representative the initial diagnosis shortly after reading it myself,

“Uh…it’s intercranial…tumor”

I know the procedure is just to rule out its possibility, and the best thing to do at the moment is to keep calm and cross my fingers. But a part of me is also afraid – particularly if this would involve surgery. Would life still be the same? Would I ever be able to do the complex things Im doing? Will I go dumb? It’s one of my deepest fears: to lose my sensibilities

If you have ever read Flowers for Algernon, the most agonizing part for me is when Charlie slowly regresses. The awareness that your faculties are slowly declining and that you cant do anymore the usual things you do is painful – how do you adjust from here? What will become of you? Will people still treat you the same? I dont have answers for any of these questions. Not yet.

Or maybe I do, but I just dont want to acknowledge it yet. I already know the feeling of my body crumpling instantly from pain; when my tongue is bereft of words; when my grip suddenly loses power. During those moments, the only thing that matter is how to cope and survive the day.

For now, I cling unto hope. And to resignation – just because i dont want to put all my eggs in one basket. If all goes well, thank god. If this is a start of an uphill battle, we’ll muster all the courage we can get. But right now, im just here. Breathing. Being. Appreciating the pot of orchids in the waiting room.

Life has been good to me.

Lover

Again and again, you make me remember
why I risk life and limb
for a moment in your arms.

You are the peace I’ve always longed for—
The land at the end of the journey;
The home I would always return to;
My secret space I would not share with anyone

Again and again, I seek you out
and you always invite me in
like I’m the sweetest fruit
you dare to enjoy only for yourself.

Never minding the dirt and the grime,
you peel back layers of my grown defenses;
your hands careful not to bruise or score.
Years of bitterness has turned honey 

At the warmth of your mouth
Again and again, we meet
Like it’s the first time
Like it’s the last time

What Ifs

A/N: Recently had a catch-up with my closest university friends, and both of them are now engaged! We spent the whole day trading stories, ideas, and memories. While we’re all happy with our current partners, we couldn’t help to wonder what if we had an alternate universe where we would have ended up with our first loves instead.

Memento Mori

A message

disrupts the usual static

I used to deafen

the current argument in my head.

.

X is gone now.

Already cremated. 

Covid.

.

Just as my age

or maybe a year younger?

We have always been amicable

despite differing interests.

Maybe it’s the shared wound

everyone in the state uni pays to recover from.

.

X is gone now.

And here I am in the hospital lobby

ruminating

on whether I should seek a second opinion,

or accept the current diagnosis.

.

Over and over

I read the texts

like we used to do

when statements don’t make sense.

.

Just a week ago

we even ran across each other

in Facebook.

How could we have not noticed?

.

I can only imagine

how devastating it must be for the circle

she had woven so intricately,

so intimately,

with her wit and stories.

The trips she planned.

The photos she left.

Oh, how lucky they were.

.

While being at the fray,

even I could feel 

how swift and heavy 

the snipping was.

.

Oh, how lucky we all were. 

Plot Twist

For the longest time, I thought I will die at 30. Part of it is because of stress, but largely it is because I don’t really see myself living a long life on my own. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve always been vocal about being comfortable with solitude, but I thought going beyond 30 is too excessive for me.

The first time I experienced bargaining for time was when I met Marc. There were nights when I would lie awake, and I would hold on him as if he’s the only driftwood in an ocean of void. Let our times be longer. This has become my nightly appeal to the Divine.

When my father got hospitalized, I saw how dad nursed the remaining air in his lungs. Every I love you is a breath purposely given. Every hand squeeze is an exercise of faith. When he died, I realized that I am the remaining extension of his breath. For me to die early would be a disservice to the life he has lived.

Of course, I don’t even know if I will live beyond 30. I’m only 27, and God only knows what will happen in the future. What I know is that my previous perspective about succumbing to the inevitable has changed. Within me, a tiny flame has been steadily burning. It is an internal revolt to what my body is conditioned to do.

This brings me to my big why– which I have only realized when my manager asked me to visualize myself 2-3 years from now.

If the yuppie me would answer, she would probably think of expanding her career and making sure that she gets all the accreditations available so that she can put it in her CV. Nothing wrong with that, but my married ass is already keen on becoming more grounded in a way that the career choices she makes will benefit not only herself but the people who matter.

This epiphany also came as a surprise to me because I’ve never imagined myself to be…family-oriented. I even wrote poems (yes, poems) projecting myself as free from any social ties. At some point I even shudder at the concept of relying on others. The irony of writing this piece is not lost on me.

Looking back, I am just grateful because amidst alienation, love has its own way of growing in.

I know, it’s sappy. But I wouldn’t come this far had it not for the love given to me. It really takes some time, though. But when realized, love frees us from the shackles of obligations. Instead, it teaches us to respond courageously to a dialogue we have long been avoiding.

I’m just happy to be living now, and knowing that my existence brings joy and comfort to the people who matter most to me.

A Eulogy to my Early 20s

I’m not sure where to begin after a long writing hiatus. Maybe 2020 has distorted my perception of time. I feel that I have both been sprinting and plodding for the past 11 months. I barely have the luxury to recollect and recalibrate.

I think it is an understatement and even cliché to say that this year has shocked all of us. Every month, we are taken into an extreme rollercoaster of global anxieties and domestic coping trends that at this point, we don’t really feel much anymore.

Maybe this is just the exhaustion from being a corporate slave, but I really feel old. Not the sage hermit doling out cryptic life advice in matching couplets, but more on being a middle-aged Phyllis who tries her best to still be relevant. My husband reminds me that I’m only 27. I am technically still in my 20s, yet it really feels like I am three steps away from a potential mid-life crisis.

I didn’t understand before why people get so conscious about their age. Not until I get to hang out with colleagues who are in their early 20s. They are so young— so physically attractive, witty, and exuberant. I feel like a fish out of water.

Maybe they also sense that I do not belong, so they politely call me ate, ma’am, or mami— honorific titles in my culture– partnered with frequent inserts of another honorific po. I don’t particularly mind except when I feel ugly and decrepit.

This makes me mull over where I am right now age-wise. I believe certain acknowledgements would have to be made. It would be a great disservice to say that I am still the same outgoing, wears-her-heart-on-her-sleeves yuppie a few years back. No. I already have responsibilities that I couldn’t afford to fuck over, as well as new preferences that my younger self wouldn’t enjoy. Life is different.

However, a part of me still clings to an earlier version of my life when I can still afford to be carefree. It’s just so nice to be young, smart, and attractive again. I sometimes wish to have put those opportunities into better use. Sigh

–

Thank you, Early 20s. It was good while it lasted. Not perfect, but you wrote a lot and gave yourself out to people who need you. You have celebrated your birthdays unabashedly. You handled three jobs and a graduate school. You made some heads turn. You cried your eyes out and also laughed a lot. You used your energy living out the ideals you represent. You tried your best.

As you quietly pass, I’ll carry with me the truth that I was once you.

Soon, I will also become like you: a memory in a much later time. But not for now. There is still so much to see and learn. I will live out a full life just like you, but albeit different from the fullness you are familiar with.

May you rest in peace.

—

3 years ago, I thought to myself that I’ll only live til 30. Living is a hard mandate. The daily grind wears me off, and there’s nothing romantic to look forward to except decay. I’d often fancy that I’ll die by burnout. At least I’d be canonized as a pilgrim who devoted herself in the name of service.

That was my life plan until I met you.

Maybe it was divine providence, but midway through my self-imposed penitence, I was pushed in an alternative narrative, and I found myself night after night now pleading to the Divine for eighty more years with you.

Who knew that after turning my back on religion, I’d live each day by faith? Every “see you” and “take care” becomes a silent prayer for an extension. Each “i love you” is an intercession for things we don’t have control over. Just in case.

My former self would have probably laughed at my face and call me a lovestruck fool, but she would never know how it feels to have a home. In a parallel narrative, she would still be sitting alone in a cafe never knowing where to go next when the shop finally closes.

Whenever we hold each other to sleep, a sense of peace overcomes me, blankets me with dreams, and whispers to me the songs of a new morning.

I thank the God of this universe for leading me to you. Happy birthday, love.

Confessions in a Corporate Cubicle

A/N: It’s been a long time since I wrote again. I seriously thought I was done with poetry until I got challenged to write something un-sappy. Please let me know what you think about it.

dear earthly father,
lord of the patriarchs,
capitalist-incarnate,

forgive me for i have sinned.

when I, your paid-by-the-hour prophet,
stole a tenth of your business time
by sitting in the traffic of my dreams

forgive me for i have sinned.

when I, your trusted disciple,
coveted an idyll vacation week
devoid of marketing and micromanagement

forgive me for i have sinned.

when I, your devout handmaiden,
secretly updated my LinkedIn profile
in the middle of another working lunch

forgive me for i have sinned.

with these mortal sins before you,
I request for thy merciful absolution.
doled out through absurd penances
courtesy of your human resources.

praise be to the founder, his sons, and his corporate ghosts.

with these mortal sins before you,
I pay with blood and sweat of my brow
poured on your altar that is my cluttered desk.
a certificate of employment is all i request.

thanks be to the founder, his sons, and his corporate ghosts.

amen.