Dirty Kitchen

You’ll notice in all houses in the Philippines

from rural ones with cement walls to boxy white

washed homes where water stains will eventually

cover, knock on its doors, and someone else’s parents—

even if it’s always been up to you to find

a way to eat, will make way for you

at the table, telling you, kain.

Somehow, you’ve never tasted plain rice this warm,

and pork liempo drenched with toyo and suka this tender.

Your eyes might wander to the kitchen, which will be

too clean. The cooking happens in the back, past the

cabinet with heavy porcelain and neon plastic containers,

and there will be an opening to solid ground.

See a huge sink and double gas burners—that pressure

cooked for the simplest dish,

stacked monobloc chairs—one with a broken leg,

a woven bilao—the second generation used to kneel

on with monggo beans, and appliances as old

as you are—emitting brown noise enough to fill the street.

You’ve entered the dirty kitchen.

Always either with yero—making sure

you won’t get rained on,

or with dirty laundry lying around. You’ll wish

your childhood home were roofless instead.

Now you’ll notice in your house in the Philippines,

you may not wake up to sinangag early in the morning, but

there will be space in the back to follow another family’s recipe.