- Viewing Service
From the Philippines, my cousin FaceTimes me, shows me
the coffin in Tito's bedroom. I stare at my phonetrying to say anything, but nothing follows. All I can think of
is that I don't remember the Bisaya word for head, for body. After a minute, the FaceTime video movesinto the dining room. My parents
appear on the screen and grin, as if ready for a selfie—Hi, Yan,they greet me from oceans away. My mother's eyes carry sacks beneath them, souvenirs from jet lag
and weeping. Flies hover behind them over a plateof sliced mangos.
And I think: What is the Bisaya word for fly, for fly home now? I notice my parents are glancingat the corner of the screen, where a small box contains
their image. Dad runs fingersthrough his hair. Mom straightens her blouse. They wereonce children on this island, nibbling
on banana-leaf rice, their shoulders rubbingagainst other shoulders on the Jeepney. Now, they only fly
home for the funerals. I take a screenshot of them. I try
to remember the Bisaya word for remember. After we hang up,I type up a message in English. I won't press send. I willthink about Tito. His rice-white teeth, his hairless arms.
How he told me stories about ogres and white ladies,
how, on the microphone, he'd sing: talk in everlastingwords and dedicate them all to me,
how, at the airport the last time I saw him, he walked
slowly with bones heavy and burdensome as a church. [End Page 52]
Marianne Chan grew up in Stuttgart, Germany, and Lansing, Michigan. Her collection of poetry All Heathens will be published by Sarabande Books in 2020. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Journal, Poetry Northwest, Cincinnati Review, Indiana Review, West Branch, and others. She is the poetry editor at Split Lip Magazine.