This summer, I am keeping a collective of my writing, from drafts through revisions to the version I am willing to let live. This post is for the poem “Motherland.”

Motherland

Mother lies belly up in the shallows, 

hair of sea foam whispering around her limbs 

of islands and thinning streams. The lines of her jaw,

her waist, her feet, have grown a glut of green

trees on mountainsides. I don’t see them from here. 

This city is buried in her, entombed in the hills

of her flesh. Her skin withers slowly, like paper browning

in bathwater. Skyscrapers built in armor shield us

from the sun crawling through. We live needled by dog days 

and skin-folding heat. I lived with my great-grandmother

who is dead now. I don’t know her name, but I remember

her backlit by summer light, white wisps falling over eyes, 

a glimmer of sweat or a tear as she held my hand. Other women

we pay to be mothers. They sing lullabies with their eyes held

shut, sat down in a coolness that is stinging. In the name of hope,

a man who has killed becomes our president. The next time,

they vote for a man who would kill whomever. Man of his word, 

he promised, and for once he didn’t lie. We play his game

all the time. The game is this or that. The game is dog barks

or gunshots. Did the storm shower your morning glories

or leave a crater yawning in your roof? Are you the one at the red light

or the child holding flowers outside your window? He is begging

for a coin and barefoot on the highway. His hands 

are too dirty to take something from. Yours are bloodier

than you can bear. It is suddenly too cold in here, 

so you roll down the window once the light turns green.

We turn to Mother in our grief, pry her open

searching for warmth. Ice floats in her belly from drinks 

we downed by hotel pools, apartment windows

in view of every sunset bleeding yellow. We bring her down

like a sand castle crumbling. We step on someone’s back

and swoon over the green past the city smog. 

Mother promises she’ll be born again.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe her.

Revisions

• clarify cultural setting
• reorganize images and stanzas
• overload of political content is disorienting

Contrition for Motherland

for the Philippines

Mother lies awake in the shallows, 

hair of sea foam whispering around her 

limbs of islands and thinning streams. The coasts of her figure 

grow a glut of green on every mountainside, out of sight 

from the capital buried in her 

left lung; entombed in the tessellation

of her highway skeleton. 

She is withering slowly, like 

Palawan blossoms eclipsed in the flood. It is hard

to imagine her furled upon herself, so we rest easy

pretending she is not. The sun tramples the equator. We live 

bowed to the crucifix and her skin-

folding heat with a maid who puts a stranger to bed.

Wakes up to make breakfast, backlit 

by a vacancy, black wisps matted in beads of salt

-water on her face. She sings the lullabies with her eyes held shut;

locks herself in a coolness that is stinging 

in the name of acquiescence. In the name of hope, murderers are just

martyrs mired in politics. Man of his word, Rody swore, and 

for once, he did not lie. He starts the game

tossing bullets like dice. Pushes someone out of a helicopter.

Massacres the city next door. When the dice rolls to a

 

stop, has the storm showered your morning glories

or left a chasm through the roof? Are you the one at the red light

or the child at the window, holding up the petaled garland, begging

for a coin and barefoot on the highway. His hands 

are too dirty to take something from; yours are bloodier

than you can bear. It has grown too cold 

for bare skin, so you roll down the window when the 

light blips to green. With hot

air blowing wasps off the roof, we pry Mother open 

searching for warmth

 

to find her clogged with our gluttony. There is ice afloat in her 

belly from drinks at hotel pools, highrise

windows in view of pus rolling down the dome 

of sunset bleeding yellow. Now that she is open, we bring her down

like a tapestry tearing

and mangled. We step on someone’s back

to swoon over seascape moving in 

past the city smog. You and I too busy 

blowing bubbles in the flooded pool 

to wonder if they can swim.