Consider to pocket this moist
Layer of loam: a cache of glass, 
Ore, bones before the banyaga

Rattles the ground. The myth 
Describes a gentry of anitos 
Walked this very earth, sated

With salamanca. It should be
A given that we’ve sculpted
Enough idols in our mind

Palaces. The wind whistled
The riddle of how the fossils 
Are not fossils, but decoys

For a gone display. Speak
Gently to presences for
They are distant heirs 

Of such unearthly kingdoms
Left unseen to unbelievers
Who ease their sixth sense. 

Granted, you lecture on levity: 
Scaling a fifty foot tree, then, 
From that fifty foot tree, to

Leap—alive from the crush.
After gaining spur, we shape
This school’s yard to revive

The glory it held once. I notice
None of the pupils. Rooms have
Molten as harsh riverbanks

Where birds, butterflies now
Swim underwater while fish
Slice through the ether.

I am convinced that your
Refusal can only bring me 
To dissolution. Here we’re

Ash, dust, silt. We who aged
Years early. Here it’s sunshine
And starlight. You are holding

Your breath. Your face shifts
To a cast of marvel, and my
my heart wants what it wants.

Strand the sweating steps
Of hurting at home—they’re
Replaced by this rapture.

We’re here, the Distant Heirs.
We’re walking this very earth.
We’re not ruining synchrony.

This literary piece is part of Katitikan Issue 3: (Re) Imaginations.

By Hezron Pios

Hezron Pios earned his degree in AB Communication from the University of St. La Salle, where he served as editor-in-chief of The Spectrum and literary editor of The Lead. He attended the 56th Silliman University National Writers Workshop and 18th IYAS National Writers Workshop. His poems have appeared in Buglas, ffraid, Glucose, Scribe, Yuwana, and elsewhere. His other interests include film, music, and travel. He lives in Bacolod City.

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