Andy Lopez

PRODIGAL BUYS HERSELF A THESAURAS

after the flood,
or should I say feast,
the ocean swollen from too much dessert,
picking out scraps between its teeth to
spit you into the shore. See: ending credits,
Or, worms emerging after rain, or carcass. You’ve barred
the windows, but can’t stave off the terrible gale
in your throat. How your every bone clamors for it,
those words you’ve dropped in the sea.
Believe me when I say I know enough of silence
or should I say still-birth; say: a two-faced lover,
pressing their concave to yours & whispering,
I'm sorry, only to slash your throat.

You say, wait,
I wanted to tell you—but you’re already dying, dead.
Spine slumping like your last exhale, still-warm,
as a hundred migratory birds exit the scene.

I’m trying to find another word for penance.
See: by nature I am forgetful. Or is it bilingual,
which is to say I neglect my histories more than I can thread them
into meaning. How to say I am not who I was
without risk of you fleeing back into the graying surf
from whence you came? How can syntax be tender
for broken things, when all I’ve known is dynasty,
the scrape scrape scrape from my plate, into the bin:
fishbone, cartilage, my fearful fumbling fingers;
how they begin making lists again, ahem:
How To Live With Yourself, a D-I-Y Guide;
how I am learning to love the sea.

Do you understand? While you howled & howled
in the snowstorm of my forgetting, I fished the words back
from the stink & plugged my exit wounds.
I know now how homecoming is not the same as surrender,
& while hunger, with its hollow, ravenous mouth
is stuttering pink with want. How salt,
for all its thorns, can be shelter
from vultures.

Check my pockets. I’ve left my dagger at the concierge.
For all its worth, I am not here because I need to be.
Even if these feet still thunder when nimbus clouds
thicken with promise. Even now, inertia pulls me past
the ledges of clouds to see you,
so let your family in.
Or should I say flood. Or hypothermia;
Say: catching bodies that fall from the sky
on your tongue.

MOTIVATIONAL TED TALK & BREAKFAST

another troubling discussion / ahem / people are dying / & i am in love / i know / what a cosmic
joke / no one bothers to cc me / from up there / anymore / where’ve you been, love? / the gall of
you to intrude / on a family table like this / this soggy-pancake / elevator-music / properly
heartsick breakfast / is invitation-only / too late / my mother deduces symptoms / of a life-
threatening sort / worse: late puberty / i’ve started to sing / in the shower again—kahit sulyap 
lang darna! / & by again i mean i am trying / to make up for lost time

// why the long face, iha

must i ruin your breakfast? / it’s only a girl, mom / only a bottled rocket / part rage &
poltergeist / 100% skin-blight / touched her for the first time / on a fault line / the severe shape of
her / a rupturing hand-carved guitar / i’d wanted since i was thirteen / deep, deep bass / i swear, it
was rowdy in my soul

// haven’t i been obedient enough 

mosh me in / i want it all / the girl-marrow / the cherry-slick / press me into the pages / of your
scrapbook, please / doja cat demands i speak my truth / so here it is / watch pied piper pull me
from the brine / with one manicured finger / watch me emerge / into a rectangle of light / so  pale
& perfect / like something mother scrubbed / all day / her knees opened blue / missed a spot, she
proclaims / cleaves into my face / calls it a day / her footsteps leave / patches of checkered
framework / rusting code / the absence of desire so absolute here / nobody would think this body
capable / of ever holding a gasp / or a heartbeat

// haven’t you heard

out of calcareous habit / i am a good daughter / poke my side & see / all this wet / i’ve held back
so you can drink / so drink / i let the morning newscast stir reason / back into my cup / a toast to
propriety / surely there is a time & place for such things / now is when we count the dead / over
pancakes

// gosh, aren’t we so lucky

& isn’t god ever-faithful / 1,227 cases / 2 more this morning / both nurses / we deserve a grand 
feast like this / every now & then, no? / real American-style / eggs & sausages from the hotels /
before the world began to choke / poor nurses, gosh / do you see now? / this communal
weltschmerz / i must partake rite / it’s the least i can do / look / i’ll even tone down the noise /
no carly rae / no jopping / no tiktoks / amen

// who is making all that racket

i know that remix / my hands begin to quake / weathervane / possession / or muscle memory? /
my right leg moves without me meaning to / the No Dancing sign is right there / 12 feet / & 
barbed / can’t-miss-it / your invitation, s’il vous plait, / but love is already crossing the fence / I  
don’t have a bed for you, so stop / love is crowding the window / love is inside the kitchen / feet  
up / leaving crumbs on the seat / it’s in the shower / singing / my favorite song 

// we are out of time—

STORIES FOR THE FORGETFUL

This is more or less how it goes:
you wake up & the dragon is loose again.
the fields were black long before they could
bear you fruit. You wake up
with smoke like treacle in your throat
& there is ash in the place of every thing
you love. Just last night
the ocean had unfurled itself at your feet,
whispered its long-lost name.
You don’t remember how it goes.
Only how spring has left every inch of you barren
when it fled for another land to roost.
Or how the name of every beautiful thing
evades you, how loneliness, with its sharp teeth &
familiar hands, finds your bed even in the mask of night,
whistling between your legs, & it feels
like the first time. 

(I know;
a part of you has always been forgetful.
You’re thinking, i should’ve written it down somewhere,
a letter, perhaps, a note on the margins,
scribbled in code, kept in a box with keys
dangling in every wall of the house, but you & i both know
there is no secret that can ever prepare you
for the sight of the sea.
A cruelty, how it is the same each dawn.
How it makes room for no one.
This truth you know as well as your bones:
It will always feel like the first time.) 

So tell me another truth. another beginning.
Tell me we are part of something grand,
that in the summer everything gold was once dead,
that the sun can be as forgiving as we are forgetful.
Tell me there is a book somewhere,
with our names pressed between its pages, saying,
& they slayed the mighty dragon, The End, tell me that once
you wished on a snowglobe for stew & next it was there,
brimming on the stovetop. Tell me that nothing is
ever truly lost, that we are made of the same darkness
that begot the sea, & if so,
if we are kin,
will it not bend for us, if we ask?
Will it not listen? 

(& in return,
I’ll tell you of a sea with no name,
& the isle that it loves,
& the traveling tide
that no matter where it goes is always
on its way home, so won’t you stay. I’ll tell you
how it will return: how this beach was once castle
once rock once beast-bones in the sea
once prowling along the mouths of many rivers
by a beloved isle. How the memory persists:
How, once, we were here;
every grain of sand a sigh, ocean arms rushing forth as if to say,
you will always have my name, so stay.
Wait a while. I’ll tell you if there is anywhere you need to be it is here, so
cast everything into that unfathomable vastness, every syllable of size
& shape, shed all we have yet to lose,
until this story isn’t a story anymore
& all we are is a gasp
& a fistful of sand, until all our words
depart us, so. 
So.)

Andy Lopez is a writer and advocacy communications manager from the Philippines. Her work has been published in CHEAP POP, Ascend Magazine, and other magazines and anthologies. Find her on Twitter at @andylopezwrites.