Spring 2020

A bright blue sky mocks us      There are birds where there were once planes
      My father washes his hands      sings “Happy Birthday”
My mother paces with prayer      We talk more
      than before      We sit at the dinner table like we used to
when I was a kid      synced up hunger      I peel clementines 
      by the window      watch my parents patch the lawn grass      

How do you say I love you in Tagalog      How do you say it casually
      My father strips his scrubs in the garage every night      sleeps in the guest room
My mother leaves the mail out in the sun for hours      mutes the news
      There are eight inches between the back of my father’s ears      I gauge
how many chains and single crochets it takes      to ease the discomfort      
      I sew buttons on each end      for his N95 to loop around

A screen becomes a happy hour      I read dog-earred excerpts
      hoping someone in the house overhears      My mother doesn’t know
what the Confederate statues mean      My father says he’s had bad experiences
      with Black people      says D, my best friend, is the nicest of her kind
I want to argue      The starting words trapped in an air pocket      bubbling in my mouth
      I know the other side of the conversation      I hold back

How do you say I love you as a mirror      to someone else’s love
      How do you untangle the strings      Every ache can be relieved
with a smear of vapor rub      Every sickness chewed out with ginger
      Our kitchen was once filled with aunties      squeezing calamansi
into jars and containers      Now my mother takes pictures of her daily cooking      
       asks me which pictures look best      shares the recipes online                

When my parents go on walks      I lock the door behind them
      stretch myself on the floor      move my body without their stare
I am not the shape of their dreams      they tell me in their forgetfulness
      When they say I should pray      I fold my hands like a coward
and confront them in the ether      As a kid I traced invisible messages 
      on bathroom tiles      The stillness stings the same 
      
How do you say I love you      outside the body of a greeting card
      How do I stop counting the days      My parents believe
care is a silent scrutiny      They look at me closely and I shrink
      then soften to my father’s dark circles      my mother’s graying hair     
I’ve been awake past bedtime for years      waiting for the hallway lights 
      to come on after a long day      so I can whisper “Goodnight”