Maria Labó Addresses Her Husband, and: Self-Portrait as Hammer

Maria Labó Addresses Her Husband

The Filipino urban legend of Maria Labó arose in the late 1990s: she was assaulted and gang-raped while working abroad; upon her return, she killed, cooked, and ate her children, driven by insanity or, as some versions of her story suggest, a demonic curse. After burying what remained of their children, Maria's husband discovered her crying over their graves. Enraged, he tried to kill her with a machete but only managed to wound her—a slash across her face—before she escaped.

How could I have known he'd watch me enter the shop as I lifted the hem of my skirt / ascended the stairs & passed through glass doors / that he'd flick his thick tongue across cracked lips at the thought of my knobby bird ankles / dry skin on my ashy heels / that he'd skulk behind like a cursed shadow / as I hummed the children's lullaby on my way home // Should've turned from that narrow empty street / where spongy weeds festering the sidewalk muffled his shoes / the dirt he kicked up / where the sun's descent stretched the shadows & I found myself in the darkest one / while my evening's purchases scattered to the far side of the quiet road // Some men take because they can / my mahal / & I was only sinew & meat / wet mouth / warm thighs / & they were yellow snake-eyes that watched / unblinking at first / & / then // I'll never know how long I lay there before returning to this splintered body an echo / a new black song thrumming my fist-sized heart / nothing wet left inside me // I straightened my ripped skirt like a bedspread / wiped blood & spit from my bruised chin / each step like stones in my shoes // & every night after a thousand ancient voices / shrill whispers in empty halls ripped me from dark dreams / summoned me to the milky light of our children's bedroom where I stood over them / wringing my hands & watching them breathe / stood over them / sometimes rocking sometimes still / stood over them / gnashing my teeth to the pulpy roots night after night after night after night // Whose blood was it I smelled / staining their tiny toy smiles / their wide fisheyes / the delicate lunulae of their ricepaper nails // A wailing song trilled so loud I thought it would burst my glass throat open / red-winged bird unfurling from a tree / I tasted bile / I wanted more // Mahal / if not I then who else would save them from this bloody evolution / my son a split-tongued serpent / your daughter alone on the wrong empty street // What kind of mother would I be if I didn't beckon them back from the world I bore them into / stir them from their beds / & steer them yawning into the yard / what kind of mother / if I didn't / drain them / roast them / return them to the harbor of my body

Self-Portrait as Hammer

—i.

You might've thought her mid-prayer        the way she stood, rooted to the coldconcrete stoop, head down,        hands folding and unfoldingas she breathed into them,        coaxing the chillfrom rough fingers, a sound like leaves        disturbed in their clasping,in their letting go.

She was listening        with her back to the foggy glass door:behind it, two men traded words—        one pleading, the othersnarling—until something passed        between them, a suddenrecognition that stiffened        them silent. Each regardedthe other with quiet calculation        for a moment until it spilledover, a chemical fury, feral        and unyielding—and thenshe probably was grappling for grace,        for a benediction: litany of apologies,appeals for understanding,        muttering, Lord, look away.

She stood unflinching        with each dull crackas Pop made a new map        of the other man's face—red river of his nose,        raised mountains on his brow line, let blue-black contusions        pool the length of his jaw.Minutes later, he opened        the apartment's sliding door—the dank odor of wet caverns        seeped out from behind him,the other man's whimpers        pathetic in the dark.Pop...