It floated in the air before she walked among the living;
distant gods whispered it into the breeze.
Her mothers and fathers had brought it in close
and raised it until it grew strong.
It was hers before my ancestors came
and ripped up her roots for power
but, still, I made her kill it in front of me.
I made her kill it in front of me.
I made her gut it alive.
I made her rip out the eyes.
I made her hack it to the bare bones
and grind them to a bland, white powder.
I made her suck it up and spit it into my mouth.
Yum! Down it went. Easy to swallow.
I made her kill her name in front of me
so it was easy for me to pronounce.
May its ghost haunt me forever;
it's a privilege it sticks around.
May it remind me to treat heritage gently;
it's a privilege mine's still around.
I made her kill it in front of me
and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
BINABASA MO ANG
Catherine
Poetry'Lines marry stars making constellations in the dark, yet my line has cut straight through my heart.' An anthology trying to make sense of the darkness in all its forms.
