I. Long before the clop-clopping of hooves echo from the sun-baked road, and the calesa drops off its passenger and her groom, there will have been a thousand chores completed.
The bride will arrive at her new home and regally ascend to her forerunner’s legacy on narra steps and floors polished to ebony shine, mirroring her long virginal skirt like lover’s eyes lurid with desire.
And the dining table will not betray one speck of dust—she could lick off her dinner straight from its top. And her dinner will be served by an army of young servants, sneaking peeks for signs of approval or—Dios mio!— displeasure, as they learn to address her, Ima— mother.
II. Typhoid had robbed them of their blood mother during the war that taught them their sculptor father was useless when art served no purpose but vain hope, and beauty only attracted unwanted attention, and it was more important to learn how to bow low to the Hapon and say Hai! like you meant it, unless you craved a lusty beating, and how to carve out a living selling poor man’s meals from the bodega of their house.
Everyone says how lucky they were for a young lady to want to marry a man with seven children already.
III. The fourteen-year old eldest daughter resents the woman not much older than she usurping her place as mistress of the house, can’t think of what more a man could want beyond a brood of obedient children catering to his needs. Doesn’t grasp this until that night when he orders everyone to bed early, and the house— thought to be dead all that time, rises and sleepwalks.
The daughter knows, for she heard it straight from the loose lips of the heaving and groaning floors.
About Victoria G. Smith
Philippine-born author and poet Victoria G. Smith’s first career was in law practice. After marriage to an American that led her to immigrate to the United States, she rediscovered and pursued a childhood passion: creative writing. Her early efforts won her first place in the 2004 (Fifth Annual) Ventura County Writers Club–Ventura Country Star national short story writing contest—the first time she’d entered a writing competition. Recent distinctions include the 2015 Driftless Unsolicited Novella Award for her novella, Faith Healer, and semifinalist for the 2015 Elixir Press Fiction Award for her story collection, Faith Healer and Other Stories. Her poetry and other literary work are published by, among others, Reed Magazine, The Greenwich Village Literary Review, The Earthbound Review, Elite Critiques Magazine, Ruminate Magazine, Westward Quarterly, The Earthen Lamp Journal, The Milo Review, Lyrical Iowa, and Dicta. Her essay, “Gatekeepers and Gatecrashers in Contemporary American Poetry: Reflections of a Filipino Immigrant Poet in the United States,” appears in Black Lawrence Press’s 2015 anthology, Others Will Enter the Gates: Immigrant Poets on Poetry, Influences, and Writing in America. Her first book of poems, Warrior Heart, Pilgrim Soul: An Immigrant’s Journey, was published in November 2013 to critical acclaim spearheaded by Kirkus Reviews. Later that same year, the Chicago Filipino Asian American Hall of Fame honored her with the Outstanding Writer Award. She writes a monthly poetry column for VIA Times Magazine. Smith attended the 2005 UCLA Asian American–N.V.M. Gonzales Writers Program and has been featured as an emerging writer in several print media and online articles. She is currently writing her first novel, Gabriela’s Eyes, and a second poetry collection, Mother of Exiles.
Updates on her literary work and author events may be found on her website, VictoriaGSmith.com.
BMP Celebrates National Poetry Month 2016
If “love calls us to the things of this world,” then poetry too can call us to think about challenging questions, difficult situations, and social justice, implicating and engaging the reader with the world we live in, in the hope that this engagement is a step toward wrestling with our better selves.
“can’t waste a day when the night brings a hearse.” – rage against the machine
you know, i have been realizing as the days pile on that I like
rage
not the band– well, yes, the band –but also
anger
i’ve always thought that anger was veryproductive.like a fireit gets rid of somethingdestroys itmakes it into smoke,but gas is a state ofmatterafter all.
smoke:i wish i was that lighti wish i was that: light.i ain’t all the time most the timebut i am realizingthat anger is
mama mama i’m angry!and a child breaks into weeping.
baby i’m angry! – and one seeshow elastic love is: how far it canstretch.
god i’m angry!and you walk away from the altar– but you’ll be back.
mr. president i am angry!and the people take the damn streetstake the streets take the streetsdon’t you see? this is light.this is anger.anger.
so we rollin’ down rodeoand they say anger management.i saymanage your anger – don’tcuckoo’s-nest-clockwork-institute-happy-little-pill – manageto make it something:
to speak angrily but truthfullyto live vehementlyto choose carefullyto love largely
so we can manage.
i have been realizingas the days pile onthat i like anger
that it is the pyre upon whichall the hate of the world will burn.
so manage your angerbuild yourself a fireengulf this damn city – engulf the damncontinent – let it burn make it burnun incendio gigante.
i like angerso at night i am on my bicycle – blastingrage and lighting matches –rolling down rodeoto a quiet and peacefuldeath.
ANGER showcases essays and poetry featuring well-aimed anger from femme writers, writers of color, LGBTQIA+ writers, First Nations writers, and disabled writers.
At first he told me he liked my dreadsAnd I hesitated to tell him they weren’t realThen he told me my body looked deliciousWhy did I hesitate to tell him that it wasn’t his meal?
I’m not supposed to let them touch meI’m not supposed to let them seeI don’t suppose it felt that goodI don’t suppose he liked my screamsI’m not supposed to invite them inI’m not supposed to offer a keyI don’t suppose he’s all that smartHe told me to shut up when I already couldn’t breathe
Why don’t black women EVER smileY’all are so much sexier with your lips spreading wideNot to tell or ask or sayBut, when it’s night. When it’s time to ease my day awayThat’s when those lips start to take me to heavenI try to stay coolI try to count each secondI try to stay calmI barely make it to seven…
I smileI doI smile at children and flowers and loversI smile at animals and skies and mothersI smile all the timeYou can trust that I doI just won’t ever smile at you.
Why do you call me babygirlWhen Truth told me that I’m A WomanWhy do you call me out my nameWhy do you think that i’ll believe that i’m nothing
Why do you make fun of my dreamsWhy make my future seem impossibleWhen an Angel already rose from the deadJust to tell me that I’m Phenomenal
Your words may scratch other womenBut they’ll never lay a hand on meBecause my ancestors’ loveGot to me firstIsn’t it obviousShit, I know you see.
Is it my scent that’s luring youDo you know about my secret tooIf so, then there’s nothing i can doI am only one, but my body is built for twoActually, my body is built for a fewBut today, none of those few are youNor is it my baby boy’s blueNor is it my baby girl’s cooNope, not this moon – nothing newNothing growing, nothing bubbling, nothing to stewParty of one, yes only one in my crewNo other color but red will doBut this, this, this you already knewThat’s why you approached me with a promise of trueBut a promise will turn sour and then to untruthI’ll grow into my mother waiting on youOoops, i said it – mother – those words twisted your smile askewMother me, mother my, M-O-T-H-E-R-F-U-That’s what they’ll shout until their lungs give throughWhich one will they come running toLove They Will Who?
ANGER showcases essays and poetry featuring well-aimed anger from femme writers, writers of color, LGBTQIA+ writers, First Nations writers, and disabled writers.
You are the bloodPoolingWhere I fellYou are the woundBlossomingYou are red lipsSmudged in a circle- Japan.
You were a snowy morningThe likes we woke up to as kidsYou were a clean paper sheetBlinking cursor and a click. ….
(Now I know you are a strawberrySmashed on the spotless floor.)Now I know we are the strawberriesSmashed on your spotless floor. .
You are the red button of panicAnd someone cut the wiring,You are the red zone of dangerOn the maps of dreamsYou are the red targetFull of broken darts tips.
And now I know our heartsAre garbage you don’t know how to sort.
REJECTIONS:NO ONE SITS NEXT TO THE FOREIGNER
The city flickers
through the windows,
the train is panting
with people and silence
I try to worki try to livei try to lovei try to tastei try to be one with youi try not to taketoo much spacei try to fold myselfin an origami cranei try not to be angry whenyou reject me
—empty seat—
Hey, foreigner!“you can’t use thisgym, you’ll scare theelderly”“We don’trent to foreigners”“Sorry, it doesn’tmatter that you canspeak Japanese,foreigners are notallowed to live here”“We don’t sell travelinsurance toforeigners”
“we don’t cut blonde hair”“we don’t know how todye foreign hair”“we are a Frenchbakery, but we hireonly Japanese people”“Your name is toolong.”“Your Japanese is toogood, there’s no wayyou wrote this email”
as words bruise our badly hidden heartsas rejections break the strength in our bones that empty seat is the last crackbetween us and youthe last crack that sends us crumblingand no amount of kintsugi* can repair us.
Someone today smiled at me.For a second, I wasa partof this.Whole.Home.The cracks in my heart – gold-filled.*kintsugi: a traditional Japanese art of mending broken ceramics with liquid gold as a bonding agent.
The original appearance of the poem is in multiple columns.
—–dictionary blues——
When you say ‘slovenly’do you mean ‘lovingly’?After all, there is LOVE in the center of it,dancing, jumping celebratinglovingly and slovenly as Slavs inviting you to their homesto feast?When you say ‘slovenly’ so passionately,do you mean ‘stormingly’?Slavs have been known to drink thundersand speak lightings, crash into lighthousesand washed away on strange shoresthey’ve also been known to pull peopleinto friendships.When you say ‘slovenly’ so hastily,do you maybe mean ‘sloW-ingly’?As time slows downfor usas we discuss,give our timeto everyone,wander behind the clocks.
When you, so ‘slovingly’ say ‘sLOVEnly’,do you mean ‘heavenly’?To honour the Slavs in space, among the stars,from where borders are blurred?From where we cannot tellthe real meaning of your words.
ANGER showcases essays and poetry featuring well-aimed anger from femme writers, writers of color, LGBTQIA+ writers, First Nations writers, and disabled writers.
Beware the law of threes— whatever magick we send into the world will be visited on us threefold, so imagine they are coming for us while we are coming for them.
Beware the law of threes. Beware the rule of law. Beware the rule of threes that the Universe doesn’t pay us back. This is the Universe following orders. Beware just following orders.
When we decide the risk is worth it, here’s how to proceed:
Write the name of ICE on a piece of paper.Fold the paper in half.Submerge the paper in water and freeze it,saying, “We hereby freeze ICE and bind themfrom causing harm. As our will, so mote it be.”
As above, so below, but beware the rule of law of the Universe. Beware the Universe following orders. The law of threes says we will receive back three times what we put out when we practice our craft, so we hesitate. We go high. In the hesitation, Chad and Ryan and Todd grow stronger. They imagine new deterrents. Horror waits in the hesitation. We go high, and horror is just following orders. The Universe is guided by the rule of law.
Beware the law of threes. Freezing spells are dangerous. We must be careful what kind of energy we put into them. Do no harm, act not out of anger, for whatever we put into the world will come back to us threefold. This is the order of the Universe. But when protests and policies do nothing, when we are so helpless that all we can do is cry or scream, do this:
Submerge the paper in water. Bury it at the border.
Submerge the paper in water. Put it in the freezer.Take the freezer and throw it to the bottom of the ocean.Take the freezer and make it a tent,make it a cinderblock buildingand turn the AC as low as it can go, until they’re freezing,until their goosebumps have goosebumps.Tell them that their kidsare taking warm baths.
Tell them we are just following orders. The Universe orders us to have empathy. The Universe we imagine gives back times three. These are the rules. Imagine not following the rules.
Beware the rule of threes, but know it’s coming for them and not us. Imagine the energy they are sending out and it is on us to repay it times three. We are following the orders of the Universe, and we imagine a Universe built on justice. We imagine ourselves in other shoes. A lack of empathy suggests a lack of imagination. It is on us to repay it.
So fuck a freezing spell.—here’s a curse:
Write their names on a piece of paper.Submerge it in water and put it in the icebox.Take their names and give them new ones,Ricardo and Jose and Liliana and put themin cages in the icebox with the AC on high.Make them experience empathy. Make themlisten to the wailing of their children. Make themstand in other shoes in court for a mere 42 secondsbefore they are shipped back like faulty cargoto a country where 13 tattooed drug runners waitto rip them limb from limb.Make them lie in a lake of their own bloodand before they die, bend and whisper in their ears,“We have your babies.”
Because if they resist empathy, the rule is that we thrust empathy upon them. We force them into other shoes until it’s no longer a matter of imagination. Tell Brad and Gary and Donnie, Do no harm, Act not out of anger,for whatever they send into the world will come back to them threefold. We are not the originators. We’re the retribution. We’re the threefold fury answering for the horror they’ve created. We fly by night, our own embodied curses.
See what you have made of us?
See what you have done to our babies?
Beware the law of threes. Beware the rule of law. Beware just following orders because the Universe has its own order and its laws are inescapable. You can’t cross over it. You can’t tunnel under it.
So beware this:
When the Universe restores order,you will be haunted by the memory of heat.Your fingers, your feet will always be freezing,your entire body as cold as ice.
ANGER showcases essays and poetry featuring well-aimed anger from femme writers, writers of color, LGBTQIA+ writers, First Nations writers, and disabled writers.
ANGER showcases essays and poetry featuring well-aimed anger from femme writers, writers of color, LGBTQIA+ writers, First Nations writers, and disabled writers.
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