Bulosan Means To Free

We are always being measured
against a country we haven't even touched.
They examine the crevices
of our souls, in case
they find the long lost dollar.

In Manaoag, the siblings left
the land they inherited. Left it to the lastborn
to till, to plant, to cultivate.
In exchange to rice, corn, mangoes,
the agglomerated plantations of faith
in Hawaii and California.

Look, beloved. Be ready.
Wait for the setting of this sun
at the edge of a wilderness of everlasting hunger.
Sing, I beg you, sing.

My siblings and I they taught us
this is how to take a bath,
this is how to wear clothes, to sparkle,
this is how to open the mouth,
to bend the tongue for blarney,
to coax even a tiny
scent of softness.

No place to dock the whispers of the heart
in this land submerged under gelid sweat.
No seed of rice will grow on upland covered
by snow and darkened sky.
No poem will drip on dextrose
clogged by frozen imaginations.

At the corner of the room
they swept and broomed
what they said was help and love.
The child was there however
growing up from all the waiting
for their return, for their brooms once more
for their sweeping back to her
all their unfulfilled dreams
all the things they sent:
tension, sorrow, fear.