(after Brently Caballero)
Never, not once ever did I ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
But I always learned your name. Tried at least.
Tell my people that my favorite fruit was durian
unapologetically
leave it on my altar.
Tell my people, yes, they will build an altar.
“You will dance an altar.
You will sing an altar.
Write it. Sculpt it. Grow it. Chisel it.
Dream an altar.
And to be clear, tell my people the altar will be for me.
Tell them. Tell them that the picture they place on the altar.
will highlight my rather nicely shaped head
which is a tribute to my nana
who never set me down alone on my back.
Tell them not to hide my freckles, the scar on my left cheek
the one born of vanity
(ha! the irony)
and the one above my heart
born of times of trouble we neither
hide nor talk about.
Tell him “she wanted to compliment your glasses but she’d already commented on
your hat and how well that shade of orange suited you.” And maybe being less worried about what people thought might have freed her, did free her.
Tell them it is only fitting
to burn these bones born,
as they were,
in the year of the fire dragon.
Tell my people that I was afraid of dying
until I realized
until I saw the truth, stark and bare,
of all the people
I could haunt
first among them
the celebrity so-called chefs
who hate durian.
Tell them. Tell them.
Tell my people she wrote this poem knowing full well it could be her last
Tell my people she loathed to be the one to tell you it could also be your last.
Tell my people
her listen long time
her create long time
her destroy some time
her forgive long time
and her, of course, love you long time.
Rhena Writes 