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.

Sittie Raihanah Macaager

(For Ina, my grandmother)

When did you arrive?
Have you eaten yet?
Where are you?

You used to ask me those questions
like they were part of breathing.
Now I ask the wind,
and it answers with nothing.

You died right after I graduated.
Right after the one moment
you waited your whole life for.

I wore that gown with pride.
Now it feels cursed.
Heavy with the silence of
what I never got to say.

I didn’t even get to tell you I made it.
That I did it for you.

Why does love stay so long,
only to tear itself away
in one violent second?

You were beautiful,
not in a delicate, storybook way.
You were beautiful in how you stayed.
Through hunger.
Through illness.
Through whispered prayers
when the world forgot to listen.

And now you’re gone.

I cry when no one’s watching.
Not to be seen,
but as if the ache
might bring you back.

Instead, it soaks my chest in salt,
chokes my throat with
everything I never said.

The tears are heavy,
not because I’m weak,
but because
you took a part of me with you.
And I didn’t get to choose.

You gave love
that asked for nothing.
Unconditional. Unshaken.
And all I gave you
was a goodbye you never heard.

I saw you leave,
not just the body,
but your soul
slipping out
like breath in winter air.

And I just stood there,
alive,
but empty.

They buried you,
as if any grave
could hold what you were.
But no grave is deep enough
for this kind of love.
This kind of loss.

If love could raise the dead,
I’d scream it into the sky
until my voice shattered.

But you’re not coming back.
And I am left
with a hundred memories,
a thousand regrets,
and a silence too loud to name.

I miss you in ways
language cannot carry.
And it hurts
more than anything I’ve ever known.

Ina, this is my ode to you.

My gown,
the one you longed to see.
My success,
your ever dream.

I got it.
I did it.
And it was all for you.

Aleah Sulaiman Bantas

Moamina was the first girl I saw
aaaaaaaasoftly arched brows,
a look you catch
in those brief intervals of movement
aaaaaaaawhen you look too long at someone,
and just stare,
aaaaaaacompelled,
thoughtless, as if
aaaaaaaabeing carried away
aaaaaaaaaaaby the current of an alep river,

the kind where it hasn’t been raining for days on end,
aaaaand the water runs cool at your feet,
watching pebbles settle in the shallows—
aaaaaaaaaweathered, polished smooth.

How you call a river twice:
aaaaaaaafirst in your tongue alep,
then again river,
aaaaato remind yourself
it must flow
 aaaaa somewhere.

Her frown and smile
aaaaamerge, soft creases forming
aaaaaaaaat the corners of her lips,
aaaaaaaaaaforehead,
aaaaaassssssdd& cheeks.

What I wanted to say
was her eyes were the certain virtue of stillness—
the ease I could have held onto,
    like holding a tasbeeh
          to which I recite,
mouthing forgiveness.

I remember her voice trailing off,
half-breath,
the sound of sleep and distance
aaaaaprayers dissolving,
aaaaaaaaaaaa steady cadence.
blending into the ripple of water.

Her kindness was the first
dddI understood,
next to wanting.

When she was near,
aaaaI forgot
aaaaaaawhat anger meant.

Sandrah Maas Saudagal

Pedsilep su Bumba

Sinugo ako ni ina—
Penggagas ako kun sa lempay
Mapya man e kapenggagas sa lempay
Nambay panggulan ko sa walay

Lu ako penggagas sa bumba
Ugayd sublay kapasangin
Pelapitin pon—
kagina pedsilep.

Pusakagay a pelapitin pon
Pakapatay sa oras.
Diya ko ren penggagas—
Pakasakit a benal sa ginawa.

Kagina su bumba namin antu,
pagkatuwa ren sya sa dunya
Masu magan den pebpatay
Ugayd a kagamit pon.

Su ig a pelyo sa bumba,
na keynom pon.
Malingaw bon.
Uged a ampon ka bon.

Niya importante—
Aren pon guna nin
Pakawyag bon sa taw
Pakeynom kami bon.

Hinihigop ang Poso

Inutusan ako ni inay—
Maghugas daw ako ng plato
Ang saya talaga maghugas ng plato
‘yan ang gawain ko sa bahay.

Doon ako naghuhugas sa poso
Ngunit tila naging komplikado—
kailangan pang pwersahin nang todo.
Dahil nga hinigop ‘to.

Napakatagal, kailangan pang pwersahin
Nakakaubos ng oras
Hindi na ‘ko maghuhugas

Nakakainis

Dahil ang bomba naming iyon,
ay tumatanda na sa mundo.
Tila malapit nang bawian ng buhay
Ngunit napapakinabangan pa rin

Ang tubig na lumalabas sa poso
ay naiinom pa rin,
malinaw pa rin
ngunit iyong ipagpaumanhin.

Ang mahalaga,
mayroon pa ring silbi,
nakakabuhay pa rin,
nakakainom pa rin kami.

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Hameeda L. Linog 

Like a Green Tendril

Like a green tendril—
a beautiful, creeping vine against pale skin—
my vein climbs from my lower wrist
up towards the palm of my hand, whispering:

“I know of the fate written along these lines.
I know every twine and every twisted strand.
I bring tidings to your heart.”

“But there is hesitance
in your pulse—in your very being.
You distrust a heart
that beats you into living. Live!”

The night thickens
with a buzzing noise in my ear.
My skin becomes paler
as all rhythms falter.

Blood spatters and spills on the cold tiles.
My hand loses its grip.

Holiness in Surrender

Give me a soft word
and make me an idiot again.
Make me submit—hands on my knees,
lap folded, eyes lowered.

Steal my breath,
because only with you
do I come alive again.
I come alive again!

How is it that I find worship
in complete surrender?
How is it that I come alive
by being unmade?

Darling, allow me to bleed—
—and then to bloom beneath.
Give me voice
where there is none.

With you,
I become whole in pieces.
And that—
that I would call holy.