Maria Clara
Inspired by a postcard photo addressed to a Conching, from Felicing.
Circa 1920s, from the collection of G. Gonzales.
Circa 1920s, from the collection of G. Gonzales.
Maganda--
the word ricochets off my
American tongue
like a bald-eagle bullet.
When it makes its exit wound,
it is a disheveled,
faltered, half-formed performance
of my ancestors.
Mother, how do I bridge the canyon
Carved by white man’s iron fist?
Which crack bright islands
And buries vibrant nations?
Can your arms truly hold your child
When you are stuck on shores
Seven seas apart?
Alampay
I wear yours and I’m a goddess, center-stage,
Draped in pineapple fibers
Fine threads woven in a loom.
Barely touching my shoulder,
It hovers like a nervous
New lover’s hand.
Or a blooming petal
On a newborn flower.
How much of this is costume? Caricature?
How much of it are the echoed remnants of you?
I have tried to build the bridge over white man’s canyon
Since I was taught of borders and foreigners,
Played in apple-pie-baseball dirt
And closed my eyes, dreaming it was Mindanaoan sand.
But my home is nestled in the ravine,
Where I swim in the in-between.
I can reach you there, still,
Grasping your hand like in prayer,
In the shade of our family tree,
In kundiman lullabies,
steamed buns and stews,
and every--
Mahal Kita.
It floats in my mouth naturally,
Delicate and musical and home
I love you, I love you, I love you.
There is religion
Which grows in a mother’s heart.
A hot flame.
Hotter than iron fists,
Or bald-eagle bullets.
It burns through this life,
And the next
And the next.
the word ricochets off my
American tongue
like a bald-eagle bullet.
When it makes its exit wound,
it is a disheveled,
faltered, half-formed performance
of my ancestors.
Mother, how do I bridge the canyon
Carved by white man’s iron fist?
Which crack bright islands
And buries vibrant nations?
Can your arms truly hold your child
When you are stuck on shores
Seven seas apart?
Alampay
I wear yours and I’m a goddess, center-stage,
Draped in pineapple fibers
Fine threads woven in a loom.
Barely touching my shoulder,
It hovers like a nervous
New lover’s hand.
Or a blooming petal
On a newborn flower.
How much of this is costume? Caricature?
How much of it are the echoed remnants of you?
I have tried to build the bridge over white man’s canyon
Since I was taught of borders and foreigners,
Played in apple-pie-baseball dirt
And closed my eyes, dreaming it was Mindanaoan sand.
But my home is nestled in the ravine,
Where I swim in the in-between.
I can reach you there, still,
Grasping your hand like in prayer,
In the shade of our family tree,
In kundiman lullabies,
steamed buns and stews,
and every--
Mahal Kita.
It floats in my mouth naturally,
Delicate and musical and home
I love you, I love you, I love you.
There is religion
Which grows in a mother’s heart.
A hot flame.
Hotter than iron fists,
Or bald-eagle bullets.
It burns through this life,
And the next
And the next.
About the Author
Brianna DeLima Ifland is a half-Filipino Creative Writing/Multimedia Production student at the University of Arkansas. Despite burning through many middle school Lisa Frank journals, Brianna began to write seriously through high school playwriting. She’s since been featured at the Arkansas New Play Festival and Fellows for Two, and is set to have her work in Paper Crane Journal. Brianna is also passionate about film, theatre, and radio.