Nathara Mugong

I sat by the pantan, pen in hand,
aaaabeside me, Kakah holding her silence.

In that quiet,
athe sea spoke first—
ain the creak of wood,
ain the wind threading through the ropes,
ain the tired hands that had known
athe water longer than words.

“Teinga leh nu mag tagna?”
aaHow do you begin?

“Mba,” she said. I don’t.

“Ni lagaran leh ku tatammu leh pallat ya labayan na padeyom,”
aaI wait for the salt to find its way in,

“Mba kow ka igal subey du ya gaba paloros min lapis kuwit nu.”
aaYou cannot dance until the tide flows beneath your skin.

“Bang aku song-song usik, wal kulluk du ya,”
aaIf I move too soon, it is only a form,

“Bang lagaran ku sampey aku ponno, minjari ya kissa.”
aaIf I wait until I am full, then it becomes a story.

My eyes fell on the page—
white, unyielding,
waiting for what I could not yet name.

Ni sulayan leh ku ni saggow dilaut ma saga bissara,
aaI try to catch the sea in languages,

sah saga himungmungan bate na saga key-key
aabut the words are like empty shells.

Kakah smiled.
She lifted her palm to the sky,
aacurving like a wave,
aapaused just before it breaks.

“Sabab pasal”
aathat is because,

“yani sulat leh nu ya bohe.”
aayou are writing about the water.

“Paharok.” Stop.

“Kissahun angan mag napas ma deyo ta.”
aaFeel the reef breathing beneath us.

“Kissahun paddi ya selopen ma ungus.”
aaFeel the ache of plastic in the sand.

“Kissahun lihan lepa umbo nu.”
aaFeel the ghost of your grandfather’s boat.

“Pakarulin paharok ma asangnu sampey agon ngamanas takissa nu”
aaLet it sit in your lungs until it burns.

She moved her wrist—
aaa circle, a ripple,
aathe lift of a wing.

“Bey bowa ku igal iti min subu,”
aaI carried this dance all morning.

“Iti ya buhat ma baha ku.”
aaA weight in my shoulders.

“Ya limbung ma laha ku.”
aaA secret in my blood.

“Tenaan, ni palappa na adja leh ku.”
aaNow, I am only letting it out.

I closed my eyes.
aStopped looking at the horizon.
aListened to my heart
aaakeeping time with the waves.

“Subey dusab maka bakat-atey diki-diki.”
aaIt has to hurt a little, I said, my pen touching the page.

“Atawa subey dusab maka uli diki-diki.”
aaOr it has to heal a little, she replied,
aaarms wide enough to hold the sea.

“Maingkan subey kau ya rapu dahu humbo ya dunya.”
aaBut it must be yours first before it belongs to the world.

“Pasorun ni deyom baran nu,”
aaAbsorb it fully into your body,

“paluwasun min tangan nu”
aarelease it through your hands.

May you always
aaaabe open enough to feel
and your hands
aaaabold enough to create.