It shatters on the teeth, only uttered in prayer,
memorized. Except of the ones who art on earth
whose names aren’t hallowed, instead—curses.
Someone says something sour, and rightfully so,
of the one no longer here, while guilt drums up
a sorry sumalangit nawa as punctuation, I say:
I don’t think that is where he is. Of the one
still here, I confess, I loved him, from the first
night. Didn’t realize he would turn into someone
as despicable, didn't realize we would be here now,
understand this: I have to be here. See the evening
flutters with little whooshes of impossible love made
possible. Firefly heartbeat in the black and white as if
by magic, miracle, or love made only by love. Yes, I did
cry high above the Norwegian Sea. It feels like failing.
Though it wasn’t my job. I feel like I failed to love
my father holy, like I failed to piece the motherfucker
whole. God-awful fathers fail fatefully out of faineance.
Fuck it. They are broken. Not my fault. And as daughter
turns mother, I know I am here to draw the line between
what was and what will be, to make sure nothing crosses.
I swear, anak ko, fully beloved and whole, will never break.