I.

Everyone is an ate or I am an ate:

I haggle with an ate at Divisoria,

two dresses for ₱250, kids on the street

call me ate so I’ll give them money,

a kolehiyala calls me ate

and asks for directions.

II.

Ate Michelle, I will always be the baby in the crib

you never got to visit, and not the red-haired

woman who smiles at you when you walk

to the sari-sari store on a humid July day,

typhoon brewing in the distance.

III.

I look for similarities: our father, our eyes,

our smiles, but is this desperation because I want

to be your sister? You dyed your hair red for Christmas

in 2012, the roots showing. You were happy

to pose for photos.

IV.

You insist I’m the landlady’s niece who maybe resembles

someone in your family. When we sat beside each other

at Ate Wet’s wedding, you followed the priest’s words,

your mouth mimicked his meditations. You mumbled

words I could not understand. Your face now

is how I knew it then: your mother’s, and our father’s.