su‧nog
a fire; the occurrence, often accidental, of fire in a certain place, causing damage and danger
My nanay wipes the crumbs from my mouth as it dribbles downward leaving its mark of what could have been and there I decide I do not need to explain myself any further. I wish I had this sustaining courage, to wave a “use Google,” as I speak in my mother’s mother’s tongue-in-cheek, coarse against unfamiliar ears, response to those who only see me as one-in-the-same. The cement is cracked beneath me, shifting beneath my weight as I count the roses in lola’s garden I wanted desperately to be pricked in the hopes of becoming a princess: fair, milky, blonde, and blue all of which I can never be. I beg my mother for things to whiten, to help with curling at the touch of sun against myself, too eager to absorb the light to produce the cause of my suffering, putang ina, why are you never happy? What else can I do? taken aback by the force of my mother’s words as it ekes itself into existence: what else can I do? She screams, its meaning falls splintered on my half-swirled ears it perks up at the sound and I try to tell her that I am conflicted all it only ever evokes is the warmth of home, yet its utterance leaves me alone. But with her, hindi mo marinig? Bakit walang sasalita, Can’t you hear me? Why aren’t you saying anything? My lips fumbling as my hands struggle with its frame. Hindi ko po alum, hindi ko po alum, I don’t know, I don’t know is withered with reuse, my fingers adorned with paper cuts from beginner’s books, but one day, I’ll hold my mother, my nanay, and she’ll understand.
Keana Águila Labra was born and raised in Bay Area, California. Knowing the importance of representation, she would like her work to be evidence that Filipino Americans are also present in the literary and art world. She uses her experiences as reference for her poetry.