Feast

BITTER MELON

balsam pear. wrinkled gourd.

leafy thing raised from seed.

pungent goya, ampalaya: cut

& salt at the sink. spoon pulp

from bumpy rind, brown half-moons

in garlic & sparking mantika.

like your nanay did. like your lola did.

like your manang braving hot parsyak—

you’ll wince. you’ll think of the taste

of your own green body—mapait

ang lasa. your sneer. masakit, dugo’t

laman. it hurts, this smack of bitter.

yes you’ll remember how much it hurts,

to nick your thumb as you bloom heat

in acid, sili at sukang puti—to grow up

glowering in half-light—to flesh out

& plod through your own grassy way,

unfurl your own crush of vines.

after you tip it onto a mound

of steamed rice, as you chew,

the barb of it will hit the back

of your throat. look at yourself,

square. you used to snarl at moths,

start small blazes in entryways.

woodchip fires, flaking paint.

look, tingnan mo—see your lip

curling in the glint of your bowl.

unruly squash. acrid vegetable,

you’ll flinch. you’ll want to see

nothing, taste like nothing. but

when you disappear your meal—

when you choke on the last

chunky morsel of rice—you’ll slurp

thirsty for more—a saccharine life.

huwag mo akong kalimutan,

you’ll plead—

taste me.

taste me.

SOILED

with scrimshaw-handled comb,

double-sided butterfly, mama tends

to my hair—rakes fine-toothed wood

scarlet across my scalp, its spine

carved with peonies dappled gold.

the instrument glides easy enough

through oil-slicked locks, to sift

kuto: head lice, scourge of parents,

of every grade school classroom.

it is a collaborative effort, slow

hunt shared in swathes of sun

streaming past ikat curtains.

we count crawling parasites.

we pick the eggs with thumbnails,

liquid bug bodies still unformed.

edge pressed to keratin edge—

pop!—until the sacs burst & spray.

tiny teardrops, harmless.

sometimes, there is blood.

soon our lunar cuticles are dotted

with my own wet crimson.

//

I want to smear the same ruby shade

on my lips, jewel-chintz glinting

even at night. I want to click

down stairs, down sidewalks—

heels four inches high & cigarette-thin.

mama says I’m too young.

I still reek of playgrounds

at dusk, still rub heads with kids

whose kili-kili drip sweat

from scampering down alleyways,

past neighborhood sari-sari stores,

their cheap wares beckoning:

berry-colored Chinese Haw Flakes,

homemade lychee ice pops,

bags of chicharron for soaking

in suka at sili. my mouth

still withers pula, raisin-like

after sucking on the last

soggy pork rind—acid lifting skin,

edges curled. I suck & suck:

little louse puckering.

//

mama says I’ll bleed soon.

nights, before bed, we read chapters

from a book naming things

that sound celestial—

cervix, vulva. labia majora.

she points