Published in Issue 62.3: Summer 2023
Winner of MQR’s 2024 Page Davidson Clayton Prize for Emerging Poets
The Bangungot takes the form of an old woman who lives up in the trees. She sits on the chest of her targets and suffocates them. She becomes enraged when someone cuts down her trees or possesses something made from the wood of her trees.
—Ambeth R. Ocampo; Inquirer
1.)
Formed in a fallen
tree, my home
is a stranger’s house
in which I perch
upon your chest. Here,
I dream of being,
of sirens swelling
in the aspen
grove, of susurrations
in the forest.
Guest of memory, gust of air, the I
I am, idyllic.
2.)
On earth the dirt
is purgatory
& does not
want me.
My dear,
do I devour you?
Can I want?
Can I want?
My body cannot hold
my stomach
& my lungs
are empty rooms.
3.)
Even now, with you,
the afterlife is exothermic.
Every morning
when I close my eyes
you die. Pinned within the wreckage
like a kiss. Let me hold your neck
in both my hands
like we are covenant,
until your eyelids
drift in halcyon undulations,
until the ache within my ribcage
redshifts into light.
Hannah Keziah Agustin is from Manila, Philippines. Her work is found and forthcoming in Guernica, Prairie Schooner, Ninth Letter, and elsewhere.
