Julienne Maui Castelo Mangawang is currently pursuing an MA in Creative Writing at the University of the Philippines Diliman. Her work has appeared in Cordite Poetry Review, Novice Magazine, The Rumpus’ ENOUGH series, The Rising Phoenix Review, and 聲韻詩刊 Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine. You may find her improving the communication skills of professionals, connecting with plants, helping out at healing spaces, and raising the planet’s collective vibration.
Subject A
There may be stories I can share though I choose not to – oh no, I can’t tell you how I had life back and forth Philippines or America as if I had wings covering my children I made sure had degrees to get them through life – can’t tell you how my emotions after my eldest moved out irritated at my existence and chose marriage I was a lioness deserted by her already grown young for another pack – can’t show you how I carried a bag or suitcase with their pictures so I can be brave everyday – can’t even narrate how me and my husband laughed as our faces were captured with Disneyland being the backdrop of our snow-colored hairs – can’t fathom how he smiled when our granddaughter appeared in the webcam and said she wanted to see us in person – can’t tell her that wasn’t possible for her own grandfather to make it back without carrying his ashes in an urn as if it was just another balikbayan box filled with spam and Libby’s we sent in the middle of summer – how heartbroken our grandchildren after he turned into ashes contained in an urn – in Taguig I imagine the days I can’t say anything when they look for him – can’t form any words on how complicated to see him go – need to accept this world we travel all over - no, they’ll never know I struggle to fit and explain all of these details into one.
Remember
On an afternoon too hazy, my granddaughter brandished a magnifying glass in search of gold, whereas my daughter wailed like an infant abandoned in the house. She stood there, wide-eyed, sullen, and bewildered – how her own daughter dealt with each blow of her hand, slipper, buckle, and hanger. A distance so sudden emerged between them, she almost witnessed the splitting of the land into islands estranged, far flung, or unnavigated. When I reminded her to be strong after her love disappeared, I didn’t mean to take it through each slap, punch, or tight pull of her daughter’s arms and hair. Her tears seemed unending with her body shivering with questions of redemption. How could I not absolve her again? Outside, my granddaughter looks happier I swear I saw the sun erase her bruises how God moved His hand to wake the earth right after wildfire.