#i live on a different island but have fam in maui

[norcalbruja]

Happy Black Friday, fam. I’m being a hermit until Tuesday. Hearts and comments are welcome, reblog from my post or at least keep everything. --- MAUI

Bathala Maykapal likes to talk about his youth           For the gods have not told stories in five hundred years.

And I like to listen           For I am sick of Catholicism           And its rules           And its guilt           And its conquest.

“Before there were people,” he begins. “I wandered barren islands           Until a dragon came down from the sky:           Ulilang Kaluluwa.           We were lonely--but we were young and stupid, too.           So we fought,           And then I buried him.”

“Soon I regretted my temper           And when another sky-god came--           Galang Kaluluwa--           I called him my friend.”

“But after a while he got sick, and he told me, “‘Mga kaibigan,           You bury me           Where my kinsman lies.’”

“When I did           There sprouted a tree with a long snake’s trunk           Straining up-up-up towards its homeland.           So I climbed it--           Don’t do this, anak--           And I found a fruit like a head.           Two eyes and a mouth; I never saw it before.”

“What then?”

“I planted more things,” he says. “And I met Langa-an           The Amihan, who rides the northeast wind.           One day I set a bamboo shoot deep in the ocean mud.           And it grew           And grew           And grew           Until one day, she heard voices.”

“Malakas and Maganda,” I say, and he laughs.

“Strong and pretty? That’s white-people bullshit,” he corrects.           “Their names were Laki and Ba-e.           And they cried, ‘North Wind! North Wind! Let us out!’”

I would like to hear more, but: “I need to work tomorrow.”           So he laughs and heads north, to the sky-scraping redwoods.           I wonder if he climbs them, to remember his youth.

The next day, I get some beer           And Bathala talks about the Sun.

“When the first sun became the sky-chief,” he says as he swallows,           “He was a dick, and nobody liked him.           One day, he pulled the sky down.”

I hear it fall           Hard           Like a comet           As the land-people wail in fear           And the sun laughs his ass off.

“So the land-people, we had to crawl,” Bathala says.           “Me, I was the land-chief, but still pretty stupid.           So I got my bolo--           Don’t do this, anak--           And I shanked that fucker in the face.”

And I can’t help laughing.

“So when it cooled down,” he goes on, “I dragged it all to Mount Pulag           And I pushed the sky back up.”

But here comes the sun, one-eyed and bleeding:           The mountain melts under his charge           And fire roars out of his mouth.

I flinch at the inferno           For this sun is so different from the one on our flag.

“You be careful with the fire-people, anak,” he tells me. “They love very deeply           But they hate just as much.”

“Why was a fire-god the chief of the sky?” I wonder.

“Because he killed the first one,” Bathala tells me. “Ay, when I was young,           Anyone who killed a chief could take his place.           I don’t miss that shit.”

A spirit, one day, barges up           In a bright-patterned malong           With the monkey-eating eagle tattooed on his chest.

“I am Lumawig,” he announces, tossing his curly hair.           “Ang pinakamaliit na Langa-an,           She who rides the northeast wind.”

“YOU ARE ILOKANO!” Bathala roars,           And wrestles him over his shoulder.

“Heyyyyyyy girl!” Lumawig calls, frantic: “I know Tagalogs and Ilokanos don’t get along but y’all were right next door and Tagalog-Lumawig is dead anyway!”

I’m impressed at how fast he explains himself, even if I don’t understand yet.           And he must be truthful, for Bathala sets him back down.

“Gods can die,” he admits, “without their stories.”

The gods still distrust Ilokanos, but soon they let him speak           Of the old Lumawig’s mother, Langa-an the Amihan           And his four older brothers, who ride the four winds.

“I was born too early,” he tells me. “And they didn’t have incubators back then.           So my mom, she cut her hair,           She sang the mourning songs,           And she threw me into the sea.”

“Do people call you Maui?” I wonder. “Do you have a magic fishhook?”

“Nah, ate,” he shakes his head. “Sure, I catch fish           But Haik, he catches all sorts of things.           His father’s people came from the east, where the ancestors live.”

I’m about to ask Haik           But he has left           An empty space           Between the two pieces of Maui           Who sit tight-lipped in pain.

Over time, but not too slow           The gods warm up to Lumawig.           He’s allowed to eat with them           And called anak, apo, or totoy--though notably, never kuya.

“He is Liit-liit,” Mayari laughs when I ask. “We can’t call the last-born ‘kuya.’”

But I rarely see Haik now           Except in the mornings, grabbing breakfast long after the others,           Or so late that I can’t ask anything.

One night, his malong is dripping seawater, and I ask if I’ve made him mad.

“Ay, mahal.” And Haik laughs, but bitter           As he lies down           Warm against my neck.

I resign myself to stop asking questions           For Haik           My people’s sea-god           Is clearly not answering soon.

But his arms close dark around me,           Smelling like salt.           And he presses           Into my hands           A sharp thing           White like shock--

A fishhook.

#poetry #Haik #bathala #Filipino mythology #maui #polynesian #precolonial