Poetry
2 min
The Aswang and Angelina
Monica T S Flores
Monica T S Flores
The Band-Aid(™) helps to cover the wound and the scrape, so as to heal properly
ERNST says, emotionless
whirs in blue light, in seamless dreaming
robot in motion, returns to charging station
I scratch at the cut, abdomen raw, await my unborn,
Our second, our rainbow, our first lost to moons, to space, to time,
to cruel harrowing
My Father, my Mother, His Father, His Mother,
The Titas, The Titos, The Lolas, The Lolos
Await this birth with hands of gladness,
I with sadness, and yet
Still there is hope.
"Anak," Child, my father calls to me.
"Angelina," my mother calls to me, as she lays cool hands on my forehead.
They wait, they listen carefully
Instruct my husband to wear red string, and call out,
brandish the knife from the hum of re-worked iron, show its handle of carabao horn,
Mourn and scold the demon, dissuade It
It who tries to feed on our child.
Who cuts me etherically while I sleep,
Who slithers forked tongue into my belly like straw,
Who rides ‘neath cover of Darkness,
Answers the calling ‘cross seas to feed
I must not believe, must not invite It in.
I pick up my pace, make my best face, arrange a place in space,
Rest in my bed, in our home, inviolate
Attic in flux, holes in our walls, boundaries dissolve.
It's remodeling time.
The cat's ears prick up, she listens
Hears soft scratching in the windowpane
Moaning, rolling, intoning savage
Great hunger waxing, waning, straining, starving
I wish to feed,
her child fills my need
Hidden behind veils which I may not cross
my Greed, I seek the knife, the spear, the blade
Cutting so I may pass and raid, yet
This barrier locked, blocked, he must give permission,
Say Tawad po! Mg Gusto mo!
Acknowledge me, my Might and Right
She is the one beholden to me
And my imaginings
Tattoo ink, gong clong, dread of red thread
dust in the wrap ‘round balikbayan pack,
A leaf pulled from the Tree of Might:
so I belong to this descendant song, strong
I arrive, whisper on ship, migraine on airplane,
born with her creation in red-cleaved damnation,
Scorched clean, hidden, I dream of far future, they leave me for dead,
Yet it is I who spreads the dread,
nagugutom ako
Hungry am I...
Search results:
-scratch while asleep
-cut on waist pregnant
-luxury vinyl plank flooring remodel
This Dark one who meets, greets, barks, bleats from offerings of Old,
He protects his nest and the rest, to me must he confess his Fear,
he wears Red, heals dread, she who he wed in his bed,
to Me must He speak,
attend me, serve me, lest I must serve him...
My husband, proud, Nubian strong
Irate at my fate, finding strength in his hoodoo, his juju,
Overturns blue bottles and places them on the tree out back, hides Spirits,
raises soul guards of ancestors, those in chains, who crossed oceans,
The brave, enslaved, watching o'er descendants of the strongest,
the youngest generations of they who live longest
And yet-
he protects me
from my own ancient terror
Your appointment is at two o'clock, intones the robot, in monotone.
I awaken, I rise, I shine
My work remaining: always a test to pass, always a problem to subdue,
Yet still, all is well, amidst my imaginings.
My baby is born with a blue stripe on his leg. All is well. Congratulations!
Yet still I am hungry.
About the Author: Monica T. S. Flores lives in Lansing, Michigan, where she works in technical project management. She bridges digital and ancestral worlds by expanding kwento-kwento stories from the Philippines into tales of mythical creatures: mermaids, giants, manananggal, and other engkanto. Born in Canada and raised in South Florida and Southern California, she's excited to explore what makes us human through the lens of her immigrant Filipino perspective.
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