 This is called The Day, and it has three epigraphs from three of the poets that I just recently worked with on a creative work fund project. From Angela Narcisa Torres, Lihua, Taitano, and Uraioa Noel. Two fingers on a pulse like the true point. Gloss of feathers dimmed in the orange quiescence of the sun. A damaged beauty. A music I can't manage. No words. 6.45 a.m. The very last meal I had with my father was aros negro y petrol sol, paella, firewa, caldosa, pork bellies, okra, and a bourbon elderflower cocktail in Uptown, Oakland at Duende. Four days later, his brain got lost in language. No words. His body forgot how to walk and how to swallow. His lungs decided to stop taking air. He never came home. He's on my mind when I go to sleep. He's on my mind when I wake up. 8.36 a.m. At the AC Transit 26 bus stop, I am late to my day job. Morning commute reminds me of my father. Coconut oil slicked hair behind his ears, ductile in the back. He ironed the creases in his slacks. He left the house with Ralph Lauren Polo aftershave on his collar. He clipped his bechtel badge to his pocket protector. Pro-tractor mechanical pencils, drafting tools arranged within reach, thermos of coffee in his dimo-labeled briefcase, 10-speed bike to Union City Bart station. That was before coconut oil became trendy. That was before the layoffs and unemployment checks. After this, combing his hair became a chore. 9.02 a.m. Lihua told me that daughters stolen from their homelands do not lose their power. Their tongues, their palates, adapt, new roots and unbloomed buds, bullets, become new spells, new medicine. You do not get lost on an island. You take pieces of it, shell, sand, seed with you when you must take flight. Jelly jars, perfume vials, tupperware, ziplock bags, use what you must. I'm going to skip ahead a little bit here. 11.27 a.m. I belong in this fluorescent-lit cubicle, the privilege of the regular paycheck. The privilege of the fluorescent-lit cubicle where I thumb through thousand-page spiral-bound indexes. According to the International Classification of Diseases, ICD-10-CM, F43.20 adjustment disorder unspecified includes culture shock, grief reaction and nostalgia. It is a billable code. To be a pin-eye daughter is classifiable, diagnosable, reimbursable with a proper documentation. It is a disorder. It requires professional intervention. It may require a prescription. To be a pin-eye daughter may be covered by your managed care plan with only a nominal copayment. To be a pin-eye daughter should be covered by Obamacare. Please consult your manual. 12.14 p.m. There are ladybugs on my father's grave. 2.20 p.m. I must tell you that the first time I heard Prince's controversy was on KDIA 1310 a.m. in 1981. I was 10 dancing, tingling. I'd never heard anything like this. Falsetto, synth, electric guitar and liminality. Because of KDIA, I know that the following year, the Gap Band dropped Gap Band 4. This is a perfect album. Do not let anyone tell you any different. 3.03 p.m. You're all girls. You don't have any brothers. You're poor father. How awful that must have been for him. Your mother never gave him any sons. 4.35 p.m. You do not get lost on an island. 5.02 p.m. Two fingers on a pulse. He was still breathing when I left this room. He was and one by one they were wheeling away machines. The blipping monitor told me what my hands felt still. He was warm. He was 73. He was a tough motherfucker, stubborn enough to live to 100 just so he could elbow us and grin, just so he could give us mad side-eye. Instead it became all hum and wheeze, hum, hum the monitor blipped. A music I can't manage, hum, exhale, no words. 5.24 p.m. Sometimes you are damaged. You think poetry will repair you. You think poetry should repair you. You shake your fist at it when it doesn't. You walk hand in hand with your damage. Into the world. You do not speak. You were surprised when people register. You were there. 5.51 p.m. On 8th and Broadway, I have just refrained from telling Marshawn Lynch that it's my birthday and may I please take a selfie with him. Why can't I run into Dremon Green in this city instead? Hashtag Oaktown. 7.53 p.m. You don't have kids? Why don't you have kids? You should have kids. How terrible it must be for your husband. You should give your husband kids. You are a bad wife. How terrible it must be for your parents. You should give your parents grandkids. You are a bad daughter. 8.02 p.m. Think Tatsuya Nakadai in Harakiri, unleashing his no fucks left to give one man-wrecking machine on an entire estate of samurai turned peacetime paper pushers. Dying of boredom and leisure time, the Rona and Tatsuya thrusting his katana through hollow armor, keeping it real. 9.03 p.m. On a pulse, that stopped. The breathing stopped. He was warm, but the breathing stopped. Now he flies to greet my ancestors, gloss of feathers dimmed in the orange cohescence of the sun. There is no need now for sublingual drops of morphine for the sleep that let him slip away from us. 9.05 p.m. I can't manage. No words. 9.11 p.m. Sometimes you are broken. Poetry doesn't fix you. It doesn't have hands to stitch your parts back together. To make you tea. To drive you home. 11.26 p.m. My woman crush Wednesday hashtag WCW. Pia Alonzo Wurtzbach Instagram tells me that she has just learned the proper mechanics of the fastball. Noah Cindergaard taught her this for Filipino heritage night at City Field. In my perfect world, Pia would throw out the first pitch at AT&T Park. Tim Lensicum would still be our ace. He would be the one to teach her how to throw, even though Timmy's a freak. Arnell Panetta would sing lights during the seventh inning stretch. All the mind-blown Filipinos in the house would radiate so much pride, we'd be the fucking Maharlika Nebula Supernova of San Francisco. 11.55 p.m. I sometimes remember to floss. I always wear socks to bed, even in the summertime. I sometimes build a pillow fort. I always think about that day. That with my mother's permission, they wheeled my father out of the hospital covered in a velvet shroud. That I could not sleep for a long time. That I would not close my eyes. That every night noise might have been him visiting me. 11.57 p.m. I remember holding the doves warmth in my palms. I was still. It was still. It was waiting for me to unlace my fingers. There, the horizon above a young oak tree, mustard flowers, poppies and autumn snails. The doves' gentle bones pushed off my palms into the orange caressons of the sun. This is how I said goodbye to my father, shouting his name at the sky. So I think I will stop there. Thank you all very much.