I would say “you’ll understand when you’re older”,
but I suppose therein lies the rub. I would explain myself—
tell you the grown-up truths of regret and shame and survival,
and the fact of the matter being that all children are inevitably
failed by their parents so, forgive me, but you’re lucky that I got
it out of the way so quickly and made a spectacle to boot—
but I should have done that when you still had ears. And
anyway it’s rude to talk with your mouth full. Something
else I would have taught you if I’d only had the time.
If it’s any consolation, they will not look kindly on me.
I will be the monster who consumed his son, who knelt in a
bloom of copper and salt and tore the babe to shreds. There
is little room for nuance when I am stuffed so full of flesh.
Did you know that it was you or me? Parenthood is about
sacrifices, and I couldn’t bear to lay myself upon the altar.
Forgive me. They are welcome to their judgement. When they
discover the knives in their backs, gifts from their precious
lambs, they will understand. Or they won’t. I won’t ask.
It was you or me, you know. You had my eyes, my mouth,
my hunger. These were gifts from my father, once, and he fell
at my hands for them. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh,
forgive me — I could not play his part for you. Your gifts were
mine to give, and mine to repossess. The revolution ends with me.
I have done what I must to survive you. Part of you will survive
with me, resting somewhere in the caverns of my gut. We will
share the blame. You couldn’t help your birthright. I couldn’t let
you keep it. Believe it or not, this hurt me more than it hurt you.
I picture you serene. Better than picturing you headless, bloodied,
between my fingers. In the depths of me, there is a quiet peace,
drowning the sense memory of the snap of your spine. The fruit
of my loins had tender skin, and it burst ripe and sweet between
my teeth. Even in my grief, my mouth waters. They will say that
my consumption has cost me the right to mourn, but nothing else
can hurt you now. I have saved you a lifetime of little agonies.
It was violence as an act of love, a shield from harm. It was you
or me. It had to be me. You understand. I know you do. Forgive me.
(inspired by Goya's painting, Saturn Devouring His Son).
they said you hadn’t had an appetite for ten days. ten days. and they didn’t think to call, didn’t think that their pride and stubborn belief in conspiracy should be immaterial in this moment. they just let you sit in your chair and let you fade. i gritted my teeth through the revelation of this sorrowful mystery, biting back the urge to tell them they don’t deserve to cry. they let this happen. they can keep their fucking ivermectin, i want my Lola back.
bargaining
can we go back? please, i had no idea how short the time was. i’m not asking for much, only one more walk—you don’t even have to say anything. just let me lead you down the stairs, one hand on the rail and the other in mine; let me feel the shifting weight of your aliveness before you step foot into your black car. let me have one more embrace to breathe in the scent of your perfume. let me keep your lipstick stain on my cheek. let me say goodbye, but not before giving me the chance to plead for Him not to take you yet. not yet. i’d ask for not ever, but i know that’s impossible, so please—not yet.
depression
when the weight of remembering comes, all i can do is cry. but i’ll choose to overdose on memory any day, to carry everything with me because i’m afraid i’ll forget where i put them down. the color purple, violet, but also garnet. butterflies. poker chips. the queen of hearts. banana rebosado. chocolate cake. ube. durian. a tin can of crackers, a letter opener next to it. the sound of a grandfather clock. “bésame mucho” on the magicsing. rings with large stones that never fit my fingers right but you let me play with them anyway. your hands, always soft. an eyebrow pencil for that time you realized you filled only one brow in, but not until after we were walking around the mall, one of your arches brown and the other grayed. you were graceful in your embarrassment—even if you could never look less than beautiful. i laughed about this with mom recently, and we both burst into tears after the first ha.
anger
i’m ashamed to share a bloodline with some of the men in our family. they survived wars and revolutions but couldn’t bear to plan your memorial. so they left it all to your youngest daughter and i had to be the one to tell my own mother she didn’t have to be strong. i had to feel her break in my arms.
denial
things that don’t make sense: to talk about you in the past tense; to say only Lolo and not Lolo-and-Lola; to see you in pictures and realize we can never take another; that your jewelry and perfume bottles and makeup are exactly as you left them on your dresser; that your perfectly paired blouses and satin camisoles are still hanging in your closet; that one day your things will no longer smell like you.
depression
i remember how it brought you joy to watch me sing and dance; there’s plenty documentation of this on old film, your laughter and applause underscoring the britney spears. you never knew it, but there was a time i was terrified to sing at family events—but i would for you. “moon river” was a song i learned from you. dad played the guitar and i sang to you the whole time. you kept your eyes on me, smiling as you sang the words back. just for me. that night, i made a playlist of songs i could sing with you the next time i got a chance. i didn’t get one. but somewhere in between your novena days, i found the garageband file where you, Lolo, mom, and i sang “somethin’ stupid” for one of your anniversaries. i isolated our vocals together and wept for an hour.
bargaining
can i visit you past the veil and keep no promises? if i am told to walk ahead and not look back, i will give a non-committal nod, knowing full well i love you too much to lose that chance. i’m sorry for all the time i took for granted. i hadn’t even thought there would be a last one.
denial
i am a child again and i am walking with you hand in hand in a field of butterflies. they float above our heads, creating a halo around yours. i giggle in wonder—so pretty!—and name every color i see and can feel the fondness through the warmth of your squeeze. you loosen your hold and nudge me forward gently, telling me to chase them. my delight rings through the air as i skip through the grass. then i think: this is a moment i should be sharing with you. i turn around, only to find a flock of purplewings where you once stood. i reach out my hands to catch one, but they flutter away in a burst.
acceptance
i wake up.
— jade a.
escapril day 10: drug of choice
bonus prompt - @darlingwendy: The Kubler-Ross model, or the five stages of grief, is often thought of as a linear experience. The reality is much different. Playing with a non-linear narrative, write a poem that grieves.
i love the way
your scent always
fills the entirety of a room;
sprinkle of pomegranate tea with a
hint of smoked honey woods.
i love the way
your scent blankets
me softly,
so now i burn candles
named after you.
- i love naming things after you.
Name me. I’ll open. My chest, the wind—easterly.
Call me skirt and fly-trap, poison lilac. Polluted riverbank.
Call me river, Kinnickinnic. Trash-fish. Gathering-place.
I’ll show you. The freights, the tracks. The androgyne. Dark
beneath. Girl sailor. Ghost river. Bandit boy. Who played pirate?
I’ll show you this—mermaid. This river-dark. This wind.
Jessie Lynn McMains, from an as-yet-untitled poem (NaPoWriMo 2023, Day 17)
I knew it when
your house bloomed.
When the front step shifted
from a held breath
to a threshold.
The stasis had settled in,
years-deep,
sprawling
through each room
until the air went brittle,
until (oops) it gnawed
upon the bones.
And yet
from day to day
I watched you
push it back.
The rooms began
to breathe again.
In the low light,
you went shadow-kissed,
the hollows of you retreating—
but when I squinted to see,
you rolled up your sleeves
to replace the bulbs.
The lightning in my chest
could’ve lit the room itself.
I could cry for all
your quiet concessions:
a softer chair, a proper bed,
the kitchen cracking an eye
when I stirred a coffee
at the counter.
On the last visit
(before they stopped
being visits, before
the admitted defeat
and the mutual resignation
to the rest of our lives
together)
I slipped you
a handful of buttercups
that had begun to
cautiously regain footing
in the yard.
What’s this?
you said,
and you hadn’t quite
resurrected the house
enough for vases,
so I tucked one
into your lapel
as you pushed another
behind my ear.
A housewarming present,
and I kissed your teeth
as the home you’d built
with me in mind
heaved a contented sigh.
Someone finally lives here.