“Every time I remembered anything that unsettled my heart,
my hair grew one hand span.” - Merlinda Bobis
fish-hair woman
after Merlinda Bobis
my teenage mama grows her hair to the backs of her ankles.
strands so long they dance with the moon. split-ends
sweep the concrete roads clean. she unbraids her hair into black
fish hooks – snatching seashells, burned copra coconut husks,
banana leaves from the mud of sabang. & her hair is a net
again. pulling yellowed moons from the mouth of the river –
maybe they are the drowned, or the drowning? maybe they are
the children picked up by the wind? their throats the most gorgeous
necklace of barnacles, the hair on their stomachs curled as the rambutan’s
shell. eyes closed & unplucked. a miracle – to bury our dead
whole. bent into nautilus, my mama sings a whisper just for me.
hinigugma – beloved – hold the corpse’s feet to your head
& ask to remember. she chants & her hair grows long as her dreams.
before she knew of any cold country. or white man’s teeth.
each strand pushing from scalp, plants cogon grass into mangrove.
when the bottom of the ocean finally dances across our street,
its water licking at our hips, lay me back into a meadow of cicadas
& wild bamboo. remember, there are no arks coming
for our people. mama lets down her hair & the stomp of its weight
is a gecko’s song, the only protection spell surrounding our village
with the whip of a stingray’s tail. iday – follow the sound of the river
home. until the sea is no longer a well of our town’s blood.
until the sea is a dance remembered.