Dear Kabunian, I love you even though you gave your buhay to our bodies,
even though you shaped us from the soup of earth itself, and faced us
generous with the ugly in ourselves, even though we need to face it
just to remember our whole selves. I love you
even though what I know of exile
living also includes joy. I love you with
the demons of myself—is that you too? The way I gawked
at a frantic little bird trapped between sliding door
and door, unable to escape
without my help, because you made me know I almost photo-
clicked its plight before yanking the screen clean off—
are you like that? Fascinated by our feathers
being roughed by the places that won’t let our wingspan
reach its full? Do you mean the half-dull drumbeat of our wings at glass and wire mesh
is part of our freedom song? Our voice as the sweetness-ache you wish
we fight for? Is that why you let the Babaylan be fed to crocodiles
(those beings whose mouth is always saying, “welcome”)
so some would learn the songs from inside their bellies after being snapped
by the powerfullest jaw? Is that how powerful you needed your descendants to realize
healing can be? To be fed to the chasm of your doom and turn that chasm
bridge—the faith a bangka holds in another shore’s
existence? Not just to seek the older story but renew
your sacredness in the after of its loss? Okay, well here you go:
the ancient symbols of this work, years I couldn’t find them, then
my god-kids simply made them up. Pens to scraps of paper. Made them up
while laughing, and they’re true. What do you make of that, beloved
Kabunian? Like clay from two volcanoes silted down by ocean’s edge,
forged in fire, spirits given breath, by you. What do you make of
your brand new little teachers? More are on
the way. It’s fine, dearest Divinity, it’s okay if you cry.
For and After Apu Adman / After Apollo & Zuleikha / After Ruby Singh
Art by Herikita
