By Katinka Angela Visitacion | The Sillimanian Magazine
I learn Marxist theory in the same morgue my father did.
I would bet anything that the stairs creak the same way,
that the same ghosts recognize the shadows of his face in mine and realize that no one ever truly leaves unchanged—
that in their dwelling were daughters born, sons abated, and yet that no one has wept nearly as hard as my mother leaving me (in their care).
I write about religion in the same morgue thousands of others have.
I write about the choirs of heaven,
the taxonomies of hell,
the lines in purgatory,
and the indistinguishability between specter and student at the old hospital.
