Phoenix

by Gian Carla Agbisit

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This is not a story of redemption, 

but neither is it of regret.

 

In a new blaze, I stop 

to recognize the ways

 

and stages of bright 

burning. In remembrance:

 

to the old woman— 

in her scarves, in her seventies,

 

Amidst my shaking, 

And snot, and sweat, and tears—

 

who said, “Sixteen 

is too young to die.” 

 

So is 18, 25, 29,

I thought. Hindsight 

 

is always crucial

and always late

 

So I wait, and wait, 

and learn to hate

 

or erase the traces

Of brokenness,

 

Leaving reflections,

Shadows, friends.

 

I am back again:

Brilliant, broken, burning,

 

telling myself, “Thirty

is too young to die.” 

 

33, 35, 39…

Hindsight is always late,

 

So I wait, wait, wait.