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
