Hello Friends,
I collect poems year-round to share with you in April, and over the past year I found that I had accumulated quite a number of poems about grief and death. I lost my grandmother and my uncle a year ago, and it showed in the poems I had saved. I won’t subject you to all of them, but we will read a select few scattered throughout the month, including today’s selection: poet Craig Santos Perez’s tribute to his grandmother. This poem comes from a beautiful new collection about life in Guam and as part of a diaspora, from unincorporated territory [åmot] (2023).
Enjoy.
Ællen
I collect poems year-round to share with you in April, and over the past year I found that I had accumulated quite a number of poems about grief and death. I lost my grandmother and my uncle a year ago, and it showed in the poems I had saved. I won’t subject you to all of them, but we will read a select few scattered throughout the month, including today’s selection: poet Craig Santos Perez’s tribute to his grandmother. This poem comes from a beautiful new collection about life in Guam and as part of a diaspora, from unincorporated territory [åmot] (2023).
Enjoy.
Ællen
ginen achiote
bingo is not indigenous to guam
yet here [we] are
in the air-conditioned community center
next to the village catholic church
i help set the bingo cards
& ink daubers on the cafeteria table
you sit in a wheelchair
like an ancient sea turtle
this has been your daily ritual
but the last time i played bingo with you
was 25 years ago when i was a teenager
& still lived on-island
hasso’ when you won you never shouted
“bingo” too boastfully
when you lost you simply said
“agupa’ tomorrow we’ll be lucky”
here no one punishes you
for speaking chamoru
here no war invades & occupies life
no soldiers force you to bow
to a distant emperor or pledge
allegiance to a violent flag
bingo balls turn in the wire cage
like large beads from broken rosaries
i no longer attend mass
yet here i am praying
to the patron saint of bingo
please call your fateful combination
of letters & numbers
i pray for you to win not for money
but because you carry
so much loss
having outlived grandpa
& all your childhood friends
suddenly someone shouts “bingo”
you put down think ink dauber
sink into the shell of your wheelchair
“when’s your flight” you ask me
“agupa’ grandma tomorrow”
but today i feel so lucky
for this chance
to play bingo with you
one
last time
■
bingo is not indigenous to guam
yet here [we] are
in the air-conditioned community center
next to the village catholic church
i help set the bingo cards
& ink daubers on the cafeteria table
you sit in a wheelchair
like an ancient sea turtle
this has been your daily ritual
but the last time i played bingo with you
was 25 years ago when i was a teenager
& still lived on-island
hasso’ when you won you never shouted
“bingo” too boastfully
when you lost you simply said
“agupa’ tomorrow we’ll be lucky”
here no one punishes you
for speaking chamoru
here no war invades & occupies life
no soldiers force you to bow
to a distant emperor or pledge
allegiance to a violent flag
bingo balls turn in the wire cage
like large beads from broken rosaries
i no longer attend mass
yet here i am praying
to the patron saint of bingo
please call your fateful combination
of letters & numbers
i pray for you to win not for money
but because you carry
so much loss
having outlived grandpa
& all your childhood friends
suddenly someone shouts “bingo”
you put down think ink dauber
sink into the shell of your wheelchair
“when’s your flight” you ask me
“agupa’ grandma tomorrow”
but today i feel so lucky
for this chance
to play bingo with you
one
last time
■