Before the second episode of the Philippines Graphic Literary Workshop (PGLW) concluded on March 21, we knew that we had one more thing that we can offer our bright young fellows: a starting platform for their creative endeavors. Here, we present one of their final outputs from the workshop. We also asked them to provide an artwork that they think best represents their stories. Read on.
A tall gate at my lola’s house in Sanchez-Mira,
the cold iron searing through my skin
like something that remembers me
before I could remember it.
Creaking, squeaking; wide open
with a throat that has forgotten how to swallow.
Fingerprints staining the surface,
or maybe it is the surface staining me?
That reddish-brown clinging under my nails,
tasting as coins pressed too long against the tongue.
Mamang, are you home?
Would the echo of the gate
still reach the crack of dawn
when you would bring me to school?
Your hand holding mine too tight,
afraid I would slip through time,
pressing against the inside of my wrist too much,
leaving crescent moons;
through the spaces between bars,
through the slow process of things left
to corrode,
to oxidize
under air and rain.
The door handle misses the stickiness of your palms,
the brown-stained particles leaving their quiet residue
on your white polo —
small ghosts of labor,
of touch,
of something once precious
now left to tarnish.
Mamang, do you bleed as well?
Do you learn to soften,
to crumble,
to disintegrate?
I think of your hands,
a whiff of metal and soap —
does it still ache?
The gate heavier now,
or perhaps I am weaker,
pushing it open,
the hinges protesting,
a corpse trembling underneath this glass house.
The leaves beside your flower pots
echo your footprints;
bittersweet taste leaving on the roof of my mouth —
a tangy aftertaste,
bitten the inside of my cheek;
bleeds and bleeds
until it’s finally real.
Eroding as I stand here;
wilting softly at the edges —
unable to hold its shape.
The gate willingly opens;
now it hesitates, resists, asks,
who are you?
before it lets me through.
Careful, please,
not to awaken everyone up.
Mamang. Mamang.
Do you still hear me?
Let me in once again.
I’m sorry, Mamang—
I’m home.
Written by Hailey Cardenas
