Gold deposits of 7,000 islands
flow through the network of ley lines
across your body, gluing the fragments
of you together like kintsugi.
At high noon, you blind prospectors
with your radiance. They’ll never
walk in the dark again.
This land has been mined for centuries.
I’m reminded of the historical data
when I excavate your catalog of misfortunes
and see the scars I’ve left to show that
I was here.
On the 7th day of the nation’s wake,
I held fists full of your sediments and clasped
my hands in prayer.
I opened my hands like a book
and studied your folklore.
I blew my palms like a kiss
for the departing and departed,
and you disappeared.
When my mind is elsewhere,
it’s the sound of rustling balete trees
that brings me back to you.
When I make love to another woman,
it’s the archipelago that flickers in
her pupils that tells me to come home.
Michael Raqim Mira is a writer, photographer and private investigator based in Houston. He was born in Manila and grew up in New York and Texas. His writings have appeared in various online and print magazines, such as Identity Theory, The Nervous Breakdown, Newfound Journal, Gravel Literary Journal, among others.