Preceding the Name of a Body

abandoned classroom and the textbooks demanded a calm behavior out of us. Yet this is also the part of the narrative where I imagined ways of seeking vengeance, flesh and blood. The staccato of her words, while delivering her revelation, landed as heavy as barks of trees sent like projectiles by an unknown force: Nahatag ko na ang listahan, ‘ta. Wala na ko sang may maubra. A repeat of weeping. A cold stare from my teacher’s eyes which I will never forget. Then more antibiotics.

During the bluest afternoon in the school that must be nameless, it invited a swarm of visitors. Almost everyone was there. It was the day of Hip-Hop High, after all. I felt my body was no longer mine for the remaining hours. Instead of beaming with pride, like a fucking stage dad, I envied my crew. On the bleachers, my schoolmates cheered on—raising their placards with captions in a bold typeface. Applause, applause, applause. How I wished my body had levitated the moment my crew appeared onstage. If I could have been there, I would have been there. Staying until they finished their performance in their football costume was a sin. They won Second Place whereas I lost my own. Taking sides mattered. And that’s unarguable.

In another dream, I am the choreographer, an older guy, lashing out against a teenage boy who’s about to burst into tears. I am lecturing him about Toughening Up but my words are gibberish, if not poorly chosen. I am lecturing him that life is forever unfair, that others know no fairness. The way we choose a word is the way we choose to reveal ourselves.

Months later, healing was mercurial: a kneading of your heart a million times—to kick it hard, to throw it like a frisbee disc, to pull off CPR. It is an elliptical art that would require a marathon of unpleasant seasons in order to be able to move forward. Lose your direction and you’ll be back to the pilot episode. But I do not need to be a saint. I may summon the patience of rocks yet it is not a gesture worth taking. There are those who deserve more but are given less, and there are those who deserve less but are given abundance. Hence, I do not need to wash out the Passion in me. My body is my poetry. I’ll tend to its tangible rhythm. Wait for it to sing.

What I Owe to Odyssey IVEE MANGUILIMOTAN

My head was bobbing as the bumpy bus swerved to change lanes. An old film was playing on the flat screen up front, my friends were dozing off on their backpacks, and the scenery outside the window was morphing into indiscernible streaks of colors at the speed of 60 miles per hour.

Like any typical teenager, I thought I could take on the world.

I remember coming home drunk from underage drinking at a local pub to the point of conversing through slurs, while listlessly staying upright the moment the front gate came into view. I could only pray my parents wouldn’t find out that their unica hija wasn’t the way they’d been picturing to be.

As I watched the blur of passing cars, rusty old homes, endless fields of rice, and the silhouettes of people I would never meet, the comfort of the chase—in between leaving and arriving—made me think even further.

I considered myself a closeted problem child.

I don’t remember when, but I can recall witnessing this kind of rebellion grow in the stifled confines of my room. There were tears in between ragged breathing as the gradual nausea built up, and wounds drawing by the pulse until the world spinned from my vision. And amidst the chaos of it all: silence pierced with needle-like shrillness—lost in a void I couldn’t crawl out of.

Days flew by without any meaning, and I found my entire being numbed, cold, and unbearably alone. Silence ensued. Which came first, I wondered, the withdrawal or the loneliness?

It wasn’t long after that when pain became a friend, and blood, a comfort. Tears no longer lingered during those nights. I couldn’t really recall much after that. I just braced myself for what was to come.

The bus let out a soft sputter before it slowed down to a complete stop. And as my friends and I scampered towards the exit, I could feel the anticipation washing away the lapping uncertainty of the unknown.

We arrived at the last wharf before reaching the island of the giants. After reaching the pier, it was by some stroke of bad luck that the boatmen