Self-Portrait With & Against
after Chen Chen
With a plastic stool in the bathroom I use for balance
when I scrub my legs. Against a Tanduay calendar girl
wearing a red bikini at the sari-sari store. With the jeepney
neon sign God Knows Hudas Not Pay flapping in the wind.
Against a god who only answers in typhoons. Against politicians’
faces on donation goods after typhoons. With the electric fan
that oscillates only to the right. Against Knorr chicken cubes
in the cupboard that have melted together in the heat. Against
the grocery bagger who snapped my mother’s Tide bareta
in two. Against relatives who think they’re white in America.
Against brownouts that last longer than promises. With pens
that ran out but I keep anyway. Against the editor who said
my english “isn't clean.” With my father’s reminder to always
bring an umbrella. Against prophets selling umbrellas and
potions along Quiapo. Against men who call me “miss”
and expect me to smile. With receipts folded into quarters
together with small poems inside my wallet. With sampaguita
around the necks of saints. With writing about dictators. Against
cab drivers who refuse to take directions because I’m a woman.
Against rent that takes half my salary. With my handwriting on
a yellow post-it stuck to the bathroom mirror: buy eggs, take meds.
Against a city that keeps remaking itself through floods. With a stack
of dog-eared books on the floor, titles worn off their spines. Against
my family’s eternal confusion: “but when will you get a real job?”
With wet laundry on my arms. With wrists hurting from writing
all night. With a dented tin holding love letters and prescriptions.
Against neighbors gargling karaoke Celine Dion at 2 AM. With
dreaming deep in my native tongue. Against waking up screaming.
With the faint smell of rain trapped in the curtains. Against visa
applications that tell me I’m too brown. With the clock blinking
12:00 forever. With the moon peeling itself open like calamansi.
Why are you still here? Why are you still here? With a herculean effort
to stay alive. With rice cooking, always cooking. With everything
I cannot yet forgive. With every lost thing turning into a word.
T. De Los Reyes is a Filipino poet and the author of And Yet Held (Bull City Press). Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Puerto del Sol, Poetry Northwest, Sixth Finch, Variant Literature, Pleiades, and elsewhere. A 2025 VONA Summer Fellow, she has been nominated for Best of the Net. She is the founder of Read A Little Poetry. Read more of her work at tdelosreyes.com.
