First Lady
Anis Gisele
My aunt does not consider herself
young.
She does not consider herself
thin or unlucky.
She is married to a man my mother never argues with
because he has money.
My uncle tells people he speaks to God. He will not tell my aunt
where their daughter came from.
He says voices from the light told him she was theirs.
Their daughter is twelve. When she hesitates before saying her father
helps people, I can see now she will one day call his worksomething else.
My uncle thinks he is God’s encore,
thinks he has all the universe’s teeth,
tells my aunt what to eat and when to fast.
She says she and my uncle don’t have sex anymore.
It is what he wants: to keep the moon inside of him.
He yells at her.She says it is fine.
I nod like I believe.
For so long, she has listened to people call him master. She thinks he is hers too.
Women from Manila quickly learn our size. We are only as big
as our country,
and our country
is small, a bed crowded
with soldiers,
a wound infested
with priests.
My aunt grew up in the time of Marcos.
Women who spoke out against him were found with
burnt
mouths,
bruised
veins,
serrated
flesh.
Women who spoke out against him were never found.
When my aunt was a little girl, Imelda Marcos was First Lady.
She stood by her man. All the little girls saw.
My uncle met Imelda last year.
My brother, born and raised in America, asks me
who Marcos is. I say, A dictator.
My uncle corrects me, A visionary.
My uncle and aunt slow-dance.
Pause.
The
floor tilts.
She does not let go.
Originally published in Moss: Volume Four.
