If I ever go back to confession, I’ll say

by Angela Rona Estavillo

when Rage makes her way 

to my door, I ask her how she 

likes her coffee. Not as bitter as

you would expect. In fact,

a glut of muscovado in the

stippled mug. I oblige such a 

gracious guest. Offer her

tsinelas when she takes off her 

shoes. She compliments the granitic

countertop, spots the hushed garnet, 

remembers it is my sister’s 

birthstone. Says of course your mother’s 

pandesal isn’t too dry. I think she 

must be lying—but she would 

know better than I do. Unlike me

Rage has known my mother since

she was a little girl. To speak of 

girlhood: the mired carabao, 

bellowing. A craterlike scar on the shin 

left by a splinter without a home. Know 

that a foreign body will always find 

its way out. Know that my mother does 

not believe in confession. Tell me my 

penance for when I do not listen 

to her. Tell me my penance for when I 

do. 

Born on Te Āti Awa land (Wellington, New Zealand), Angela Rona Estavillo is a Filipino-American writer working primarily in poetry and creative nonfiction. She holds a B.S. in English from Towson University, where she was also a Writing Fellow. She served as an assistant nonfiction editor for volume 71 of Grub Street.