Your name sat there

like the rotting meat

of a dead cow.

Mother cooked

nilagang baka

for lunch. I ate

two bowls of

what came



my mouth

as I tried to poke my throat with my dirty finger (a lullaby?),

as I screamed out, “Yes ma, I already fed the toilet!”

I already fed that baby whale, all ceramic and white like its

mother. Sometimes, I’d hear it gurgling, calling out your

name, “Dada!” It would call out your name and I would

think that it was choking, and I would smile thinking

how maybe it would save itself by dying, (maybe it

would save me) by flushing out your name,

flushing out that dead cow

peeking through the slits

of my door, waiting

for cold sheets,

for damp midnight,

for the moon

as it lit

the screen

of our last

full show

for the rain

as it jumped

off its seat to bathe me,

to wash your smell off me,

to wash your dead—dead cow smell off me.

Thesis work: A guide to research


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