The first thing you unwrapped
was a sweater.
It was covered in brown paper.
It was Christmas.
You looked it over and nodded,
threw it over the sofa's arm rest.

The last thing you unwrapped
was a Power Ranger.
It was still in its original box,
shiny and new.
You ripped it open immediately,
and played with it all through dinner.

You wore the sweater every night that winter
and many nights after.
You stretched its wool
and laundered its stripes
until it became unrecognizable.

You slept with that Power Ranger every night that winter.
You put it away after your birthday.
The paint's still crisp
and there's barely a scratch
except for that one time you accidentally dropped it down the stairs.

When you threw away the Power Ranger,
nobody was surprised.
Put it in a bag,
you didn't even bat an eye.

When you threw away the sweater,
and I asked you why,
you said, no reason,
you'd outgrown it
even though it fit you just fine.

You told me you were having problems,
and when you dumped her,
nobody was surprised.

You told me things were changing,
and I asked you why.
You said no reason, you'd just outgrown somethings,
we'd be fine.
And I believed you.


Looking back,
I always thought I was the Power Ranger
and she was the sweater.

I guess I was wrong about that, too.

Where I’m From

I am from mosquito lotion
From Burt’s Bees and soft jazz.
I am from dancing with my grandfather on the wooden floor
(My feet, bare, pink with tiny toes
Stepping on his shiny shoes as we twirled.)
I am from the rainy mornings
The hiding places
Where no one thinks to look,
And I sit and wait - alone but not lonely.

I am from the indecisiveness and good humour
From the boy who owned only wooden shoes and the lady with the diamonds
I’m from forget me nots,
And the kiss me goodnights.
I’m from the hurt knees and Starry Starry Nights
With a special dedication to you
And I’ll believe in what I want to, thank you very much.

I am from the middle seat to the left of the dinner table,
Second-is-best and Jollibee.
From the comfortable silence
To the “authentic” family ghost stories.
The childhood my father gave up to be able to grow up
And support his family.

I am from the crumbly track,
Fastening sharp spikes on the bottom of my shoes,
The jumpy nerves as I approach my starting block.
From the thump of my heart, my shoes slapping the ground in a rhythm I know so well.
From the rush, the thrill of crossing that finish line.
Watching the day surrender to night, my team stands beside me.
And still I am running

On my shelf I keep a blank notebook
Waiting to be filled with secret fears, adventures and bigger-than-life dreams.
No one knows it exists.
If they find it, they’ll know I want to escape.
I am from these fitful nights,
The toss and turn but don’t wake me ups.
The wanting to be a dream catcher, not just a dream passerby.
In dreams I find no one molding me for a legacy, for a perfect GPA, for a successful future;
Complete control.

I just want a nice guy, that's all.

But I'd like him better if he were tall.
Maybe with eyes of green or blue,
with sparkling manners, who likes zoos.
If he could cook,
always keeps his head in a book,
I think that would warrant a second look.
But while we're at it, let's not forget
it speaks well of him if he had a pet.
When it comes to his vices,
moderation is key,
Cause I'm not perfect, and neither is he.
He should like talking to me,
but not too much
his insecurities won't need me to act as a clutch.
He won't push me around,
but wouldn't mind taking the lead -
Love me with faith, but never with greed.
I'd like a man whose quick to laugh,
but never at others
and always with tact.
If he was committed to saving the world,
or he had a head full of curls,
then I would be one very happy girl.

Now fulfilling that list shouldn't be too much of a bother -
and if you think I'm picky,
well, you see should the list of my mother's.

My grandmother always told me to keep my head down
whenever we drove past the kids on the street.

They always had things to sell,
peddling their candies and flowers
as if they were giving you all they had to offer,
their lilting voices earnest, their black eyes dead.

***** hands ****** to knock on the windows of your car,
skinny blurs racing to fill the gaps in between the midday traffic -
keeping my head down, it was easy to forget they were there.

I don't know why I assumed that they had parents
and a roof
and a table full of food
like I did.

They looked hungry all the time.
I felt the words rolling around my mouth,
my tongue tasting them
before I swallowed my objections
once again.

I was never a brave child.


I snap my purse shut,
I have just been caught.
You don't know what they do
with the money that you give them,
my grandmother chides.


I'm never quick enough
to catch her flit her hands,
like doves, granting salvation
in the form of a fifty peso note slipped into the little girl's grubby hand -
the only telling sign
a wreath of sampagita flowers
hidden in the back seat.


One day,
I won't be afraid to look up
and stare their poverty in the eyes
and maybe they might flicker with recognition.

I have been taught that hunger
sinks the cheeks
droops the skin
swells the bellies
so that the afflicted all look the same.

So why is it that I am still searching for forgiveness in a single child's eyes?

My ignorance
shall forever be
a debt I will be required to pay.

Short, quick breaths.
In, out.
Slap-slap,
my shoes touch the ground,
Steady rhythm, easy pace.
The first few steps are always the hardest.

Shoes caked with mud,
Dewy grass and sticky air,
The ground hums
A dizzying burst of energy,
And I'm racing, I'm soaring.

But I hate it just as much.
The aching muscles,
The warm smell of sun,
The 'I'm trying, I'M DYING'
But, I've hit my rhythm
and no matter how many times I tell myself I will,
I can't stop.

So I keep going.
Sometimes I feel like this is the rest of my life:
Racing through everything,
trying to catch up to some invisible goal,
an imaginary finish line.
Maybe in the end, we'll all finish in first place.

I live for the moments,
the out of body experience
Pushing myself so hard I can't feel the pain anymore.
Because, it's moments like these where I am so sure I am
flying
flying
flying.


But my feet always touch the ground
Steady rhythm
(slap-slap)
of reality.

You used to look at me -
and really look -
as if in those moments of clarity you found
something in me, something wonderful, something worth keeping.

I always wanted
to live up to those moments.

I still try; carefully,
knowing that at any moment you might change your mind.

It sounds better than
a song we didn't want to learn
but your memory is a sting I can't kiss away,
a door I crack open always.

Felt like we were breaking,
every time I caught you glancing at the rest of the world.
Did you prefer to lie
when you looked into my eyes?

Felt like a lifetime I was humming along to;
pierced with regret and some kind of sweet sorrow.
You couldn't love me,
and I couldn't leave you.

Felt like I was breathing for the first time,
I broke down and cried and cried, and you held me -
you learned to love me,
and I learned to say goodbye