I remember calling you Donkey Kong

because it matched your initials.

And, you called me “Ate” (ah-teh) –

big sister in tagalog

because our culture is big on respect,

big on our titles for those older,

but I’m not sure what else.
As your older cousin

I did a poor job, didn’t I?

When I showed that hand, our family magic.

(I didn’t know it was a secret, but

I’ve learnt intentions don’t really matter).

That flashy crystal my mum used to love

to parade around on school day drives and shopping trips,

“Your uncle is addicted to methamphetamines,

Tsk, always asking your grandma for money”.
I laughed the way she did when I casually

mentioned your dad’s time on ice

not knowing how inappropriate until

I saw you blank

then blink

and say,”Oh.

 …I didn’t know.”

You recounted how he would disappear for months;

no one ever told you, or your brother, anything.

Sometimes he’d show up only to leave.

You thanked me, you finally knew why.
We said we’d meet again

and we waved each other off.

I stared at the sky blurred with periwinkle blue

and delicate white

as I replayed the day on my way home.

I had finally seen you for the first time in years.
My dad messaged me

saying to leave your family alone

as if I had stuffed you all in a box

and shaken the whole goddamn thing.
Your dad took over your phone

telling me he would get me.

How he knew someone who worked at the

Roads and Maritime Service;

he’d get my address.

How I’ll never see you again.

How my father was no angel;

he had done it too.

But, here’s the difference:

I knew.

Not that he had dabbled in meth

but had smoke shrouding him all the time

or maybe I just didn’t have any expectations.

So, I didn’t care. I always tried not to.
Perhaps our fathers,

being immigrants, were easy enough prey

to the helplessly sweet caress

of a seemingly endless haze,

a glass full

of always happy

or perhaps it was a self-aware hesitation

toward the direction they were running.
I don’t know when it started

but I hate being Filipino.

Everyone is always loud

but not about things that actually matter.

Everyone always cares

but only so they can talk about you later.

Everyone always wants to sing.

Have you noticed at every Filipino party

there is always a karaoke machine?
I spoke to my therapist of my sudden urges to sing,

And he said it was a release: a way to gather oxygen,

and blow out the stale emotions.

Who knows if it’s true –

God? He doesn’t bother me anymore.
Maybe, all of us are a muscle, drumming though

and navigating this mapless, dusty,

copper landscape with song.
Maybe, it’s a shared subconscious trying to clear

and make way for something better than the past.
Or maybe we’re all just so traumatised,

don’t recognise it

and just keep belting tune after tune.

Everything hidden under layers of

of loudness and oily, fatty, delicious, fried food. 
You and I, we should be careful,

heart attacks pulse through our family.

It’s the leading cause of death in The Phils

it transverses oceans

and is grasping to find

another rhythm.