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poems excerpted from a collection that chronicles the rise of babaylan, a feminine healer of indigenous filipino tribes

beware of white jesus & gwenyth paltrow

my breasts used to carry amber milk
sweet with the secrets your white jesus never wanted you to know:

  1. the penis was a product of a sneeze while the gods were sculpting

  2. the words male and female have always been as useless as the american penny

  3. every nucleus of every cell in your body contains a god which requires worship

  4. the blood from a broken hymen is the original bitcoin

  5. the nipple is a satellite dish and you can teach it to telepathically change your Spotify playlist while you’re in the shower

  6. I was glamping before gwyneth paltrow wrote about it on goop

gwenyth’s people shackled my wrists,
dug a grave with a shovel whose metal I once used to send signals,
”Do not come for me.”
the call dropped because gwenyth’s people were molding the metal
into a weapon that would bury me

they scooped my eyeballs and draped them around her neck

every orifice filled with dirt and soil
the roots of the mango tree asked for my consent every time she entered me

concrete poured over layers of earth
until I evolved from the need of breath

I willed peonies to grow out of concrete
anytime my sisters’ names are spoken

Sandra Bland let me braid her hair centuries ago
we whispered stories in each others’ ears
to keep from getting lonely in our respective prisons

I went to Soul Cycle with the threads in her denim
when the denim on her knees touched the concrete, I whispered,
”remember when we used to make mango juice with our bare hands?
the bees loved it and that was before their stingers evolved into poison.”

Concrete liquifies at the precise temperature of
do-not-pull-out-oh-my-god-holy-shit-right-there degrees celcius
at every release of hot breath,
the bitcoin blood in my veins rushes with virility
I ask the roots of Woke Bae, ever so kindly,
to tell the leaves to tell the air to tell the water —
a game of telephone asking the gods in your skin cells to choose pleasure

My satellite dish nipples speak directly to all of Ikea’s cotton bedsheets,
”the bodies that are about to make love on you can unearth my wrath.”

with every moan, every scratch of a lover’s back
every sound emitted from a flog welting across tender skin
every vibrator whose batteries I encourage,
”Keep going! You can do it! Almost there!”

I emerge from the dirt
swallowing times square, forever 21
uber surge fees, malaria
transphobia, donald trump

Babeland will realize that orgasms also belong to the poor

My body emerges from the cracks,
skin red from lava,
products of being better acquainted with dirt
the dirt which will not allow New Earth to forget each crime that spilled my blood

hair wild
from generations of sisters french-braiding my hair and using the plaits as safe houses

My hands hold the orgasms of Jennifer Laude,
the realest woman I’ve ever known

I rise from the cracks of the earth you are afraid to fall into
white jesus waves his flag and surrenders
my breath is too hot and too pure for him to breathe it
our pleasure is too loud for him to keep existing