Tin-ik-ling

by Helena Ducusin

Tinikling, not tinkling,
I have to tell my white friends
when they laugh. We dart
in and out of bamboo sticks.
We are birds dodging traps
in a rice field far away,
someplace I’ve never been

but I pretend, the red skirt
swishing around my white hips
as I tap quicker melodies
with my feet—maybe
if I dance faster my skin
will get darker and I’ll finally
feel like I belong.

This Filipino party burns words
I don’t understand onto my tongue
as we watch the real ones
show us how it’s done,
while oil coats our stomachs
and the pig stares back at us
from the stake.

My freckles give me away, more
than my white mom ever will.
But I clap along and smile
when they stare. Jump out
of the traps, we’re told,
before they clip your feet,
before they catch you out.

Helena Ducusin (she/they) is an emotional being, devoted cat parent, and lover of devastating pieces of media living in Portland, OR. Her words have previously been featured in Door is a Jar, The Nasiona, The Pointed Circle, Rain Taxi and others. Can be found ruminating at helenawriting.substack.com.