Audrey L. Reyes

MOT JUSTE

Audrey L. Reyes

Who do I thank for the bouquets in my mouth?

for petrichor; for kilig mamihlapinatapai rasasvada for every stem tipped and forgiving on my lips.

I can’t recall the word for the accidental dance between two people whose altruism gets the better of them.

Shouldn’t there be a word for when we drown in black holes of our making? Help me,

Maybe I am not privy to the tongue that bore it; I have but two.

Is there an expression for wanting to protect your palate from all you deem unholy?

What about for wanting to mother those you love despite knowing their capacity to hold their own? I don’t want you to fear adventure.

My sigil is an uncertain maiasaura.

And what of this envy for not reaping the appellations we never thought we’d need?

Who do I thank for these bouquets in my mouth?

Certainly there is an end to naming this gratitude for reluctant fiddlers harvesting the flowers between our teeth

and humbling me to wield the blooms they’ve bestowed to a world we mistakenly pencil as lonely islands.

What is the mot juste for those who’ve colored our grey questions into community?

Glossary: petrichor - n. the distinctive earthy, usually pleasant smell of rainfall hitting dry ground kilig - n. (Filipino) The rush or inexplicable joy one feels after seeing or experiencing something romantic mamihlapinatapai - n. (Yaghan) The wordless, yet meaningful look shared by two people who both desire to initiate something but are both reluctant to start rasasvada - n. (Sanskrit) The taste of bliss in the absence of all thoughts

Huni

Audrey L. Reyes

Huni

n. (Filipino) chirping or hooting of birds or fowls

People foreign to our tongue say we sound like birds.

I hope they mean we sound melodious when we chirp instead of thinking we squawk like the firecrackers that we are.

And if the aviary game is an elective, I cherry-pick the woodpecker’s tongue.

This draw out, deliberate to tend with excess and boundlessness; I pull it out from the top of my skull to capture

your nectarine attention, no crevice left unexplored.

Maybe then, you’ll warble.

Audrey L. Reyes (she/her) is a queer Filipino poet, writer, and former early childhood educator whose favorite workplace activity is raising hell. Her work appears or is forthcoming in QUINCE Magazine, NECTAR, Anti-Heroin Chic, and several other literary magazines. She resides in Manila, Philippines.