Photo by Nico Paix

Today, I do not think about death, not the brittle
skulls of children or the metal in their blood
that could pass for bullets. I do not think
about the bones of birds or the blackberry
seeds left over in the belly, the time a muscle takes
to go blue from a deflated lung, not the bright jaws
of insects that come for the flesh, the meat.
I do not think of grief as a color
on my aunt’s tongue, her face a country of fires.
I do not think about kissing my grandfather
in his coffin, not the temperature of his lips.
Today, I lose count. I forget about sorrow
and its teeth, about regret and its prickled
skin. I forget how to pray for the dead
I do not have to bury, forget that hymns turn
my mouth into a sun, that terror
can be the same word for skin or brain,
forget that I do not speak Chinese, that I must
correct anyone who asks if I speak Chinese,
must say no, I am afraid I am Filipino,
must say I do not speak Tagalog either.
I do not ask anyone to forgive me
for forgetting and this is the oldest joy.
Let me forget that I cannot hold
the moon to feed it peppers when I want,
that the rain in the trees is not rapture,
is not applause for the rose on my shoes,
that I do not blister and crack
from holiness. Today, I am holy
and when I split my lip on the fist
of my brother that was holy too
and when I kneel in the center
of an empty parking lot I do so grateful
I can taste my blood.