River Children

Tagalog means river dwellers.
I cannot speak my father’s mother
tongue. My mother picked it up 
when her family moved to Manila.

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Manila means there are flowers
on the mangroves that linger
along the swamp, waiting to erupt
into flat cement planks that will crack

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as all who age must. When we moved 
back to Singapore I found it weird
that the sun set so late. At six 
it would have been pitch dark 

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in Pasig. We lived near the river,
where I once fished out a child
who was done wailing. In Tampines,
we lived in neat but gaudy blocks

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covered in pastel shapes that, on hindsight,
spoke of a toddler’s unwise decision to 
bestow the walls with his talent
which I wish they didn’t 

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peel off and leave reeking
of fresh paint every five years
along with new angsana trees
that spring up on what were 

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concrete grass patches.
I have a picture with my mother
at Marina City Park before 
it was closed off and became

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Gardens by the Bay. Marina Reservoir
was conceived by pouring sand into
the depths of the delta, shaving
the mangroves off the river mouth

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into the shape of the female
reproductive system for good luck. 
When we visited my father’s hometown
one Christmas, he brought me 

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to the cemetery. Pointing 
to an empty patch filled with
dried angsana seeds,

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Bury me here when I die, 
underneath the narra tree.

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When I die, I want my ashes 
swept carelessly
like eraser rubbings

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by a child looking over
his shoulder.