Busaw
Naisip mo noong isda kang
ipinalit sa nawalang
ipinagbuntis na kapatid. Ayon sa iyong ina,
pag-ahon niya sa ilog naramdaman
ang pagkawala. Walang
bangkay sa lamay ngunit inaliw pa rin nila
ang mga sarili ng mga bugtong
upang walang talukap na bumagsak,
matiyak lamang na hindi tuluyang
makuha ng busaw ang nawala.
Ayon sa matatandang Tboli, isda ang kapalit
sa kinuha. Walang iniwan,
ayon sa iyong ina. Ilang taon pa ang lumipas
nang ikaw naman
ang dinadala. Hindi ka niya
hinele tungkol sa busaw nang hindi lumaki
sa kasamaan. Itinatago niya sa loob
ng tirahan ang hagdan pagdilim
nang hindi maakyat ng inaasahan.
Lumaki kang mulat
sa takot na walang katiyakan
ang anyo at nagugunita lamang
ng mga salita.
Sa salita nagiging tao ang mga isda,
iyong natutuhan malaon.
Malaon, nagdalaga ka
at nagdalantao. Takipsilim noon
nang nagtupok ka sa tabi ng puntod
ng kapatid na walang pangalan.
Ayon sa iyo, pagtayo mo naramdaman
ang pagkawala. Busaw, ikaw.
Tonem? ang iyong ina. Là,
olow mungol ngawóyen.
Laen luluken? Walang isda.
Mayroon lamang lansa.
Busaw
Remember how you were once a fish
that was meant to replace the missing
child in your pregnant sister’s belly. According to your mother,
it was upon surfacing from the river that she felt
the tug of what was taken from her. There was no
corpse at the wake, but still they entertained
themselves by answering riddles
so that nobody would ever fall asleep,
ensuring that the entirety of the person
taken by the busaw wouldn’t be irretrievably lost.
According to the Tboli elders, fish is the stand-in
for what has been taken. Nothing was left behind,
your mother said. Years have since passed
when it was your turn
in the womb. She did not
sing you a lullaby about the busaw so you wouldn’t grow up
into corruption. She hides the ladder inside
the house whenever it gets dark
so it can’t be used by the expected guest.
You grow up knowing
the fear of the unknown
in the shape of things and evoked only
through words.
Through words, fish transform into men,
you later learned.
Before long, you reached puberty
and became pregnant. It was sundown
when you burned something next to the grave
of your unnamed sibling.
You recounted how you felt, upon standing up,
the tug of what had been taken from you. Busaw, you.
Tonem? your mother. Là,
olow mungol ngawóyen.
Laen luluken? There is no such thing as fish.
There is only the oily taste of fish.
Author M.J. Cagumbay Tumamac is a writer and reading advocate from southern Mindanao, Philippines.
Translator Kristine Ong Muslim’s translation work has been widely published, including in The Cincinnati Review, Columbia Review, LIT Magazine, Sou’wester, as well as in four bilingual editions: Marlon Hacla’s Melismas (forthcoming from Oomph Press) and Mesándel Virtusio Arguelles’s Walang Halong Biro (De La Salle University Publishing House, 2018), Hollow (forthcoming from Fernwood Press), and Three Books (forthcoming from Broken Sleep Books). Her most recent translation of M.J. Cagumbay Tumamac’s work has appeared in Words without Borders.