The Manananggal

Back home in the Philippines, 

       we fear the manananggal. 

           We fear the small intestine loosely hanging from her torso, 

                   like fibrous roots pulled abruptly from the soil

            barely grasping to her crooked legs. 

We fear the fangs.

We fear the patagium wings. 

We fear       her face       the most.

      Not for her grotesqueness— 

            —but for her brown skin. 

               Flat nose. 

                   Soft eyes. 

                       Soft brows. 

She would look like       

               one         of        us.

When she hunts, she goes  

                  for the babies in the womb.

                         We hoped she’d only find 

the whores of the barrio. 

                 They’re who we thought

                            she punished

                                                      or saved,

depending who you asked.

   Because when you feel the sickness 

                writhing up your throat and 

                            through     every      limb       of       your      body,

                                 when the sweltering sun 

              stirs awake in the early hours

and your period is late

               and the bawang Mama is sautéing 

                    smells stronger than usual

and there’s more sweat clinging to your skin.

When the dirt roads are harder to 

      trek up to the sari sari sore

            because your feet are bursting 

against your sandal’s cheap plastic strap,

suddenly, 

     you fear more than the manananggal.

            You’d want to rip your torso apart too.

                  You’d want to grow claws and fleshy wings.

                       You’d want to retreat to the darkness and hope

         that the neighbors mishear your gags over the toilet bowl

                             as animalistic growls from the dog outside.

Walang sikreto sa baryo. 

                     Nothing is a secret in the barrio.

We’d carry on as usual.

                  You’d wash the rice in the morning.

            We’d listen to the hums of the motorbikes bustling by 

   and the chickens arguing about God knows what.

We’d listen to the church bell ripple through

         every corner and narrow alleyway and house

             stacked 

                      and 

             stacked 

 upon each other like layers

                of cake made by a baker who didn’t know how to stop.

And we’d listen to you stifle a cry behind it all.

 Because before the lolas selling the ice candy

              and before the street dogs scavenging for scraps

    and maybe even us,

the manananggal heard you first.

      And for the first time, you

                                                 thank God she did.