Poetry / July 2018 (Issue 40: Writing the Philippines)
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by Abigail Licad
I grew the wrong direction in my mother's womb
a breech baby torn out wailing from her sliced stomach
When I asked my father to name the leafless
grooves branching from my mother's belly—
he taught me the word scar It will rip open if you are bad and Mama will die once her insides fall out That was when I still believed in my father and when I learned that my mother will surely die Still I kept silent because I wanted them to think me good Then for days I waited for the scar to rip I thought about all the ways I was and knew myself bad But worry kept me from weeping It took years before I knew my father had lied years before I learned I'd only myself to trust and that badness or goodness had nothing to do with living or dying Only that a scar is a shadow of pain once felt and shadows follow us everywhere |
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Previous Issue: July 2018 |
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Cha: An Asian Literary Journal 2007-2018
ISSN 1999-5032
All poems, stories and other contributions copyright to their respective authors unless otherwise noted.