They ask, do you remember, but how could I ever forget: the initial lift of the dread that comes from a single pink line, never-ending, unchanging, even if you close your eyes. The time in between each breath immutable, you are always panting, always grasping The porcelain, my headrest as I watch the blood leave me, gazing up at my morning star, one of four against enclosing cages, with heaving uncontrollable, begging to make it through the night My sisters scream it is my choice, and I agree, but my mind still lingers to time and possibilities, and maybe it would have been three? When I couldn’t breathe, I burrowed myself deeper into the blankets hoping to find warmth of protection, that enveloping, that which is only present in childhood.
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.