Heller's Confession

Blame it on the god
for making creatures
conscious only for
an instant. The past
being a memory;
the future, a goal;
the desire’s requests,
imagination.
Because if I were
to be aware of
my existence in
all of dimensions,
I would sure subsist
in this world before
you have become
an institution of–
an incarnation
of classic authors,
a puppet of my
basic aesthesis.
One generation,
our mothers would breathe
us out; couples of
creativity;
couples born of words
as we memorize
a language; as we
fiddle with stories
lines, schizophrenic.
There would be no gap
between years in school.
I’d be eager to
relish walks in the
universities,
your hand clumsy on
mine. And in our youth
just a cognition
an innocent view
of how couples make
love. Slow move affair
like commercial films
you critic quickly.
I do not intend
to reveal secret
thoughts in between us.
The years together
defined love– for some,
pity, for me, lust.
For you, as teacher,
as educator,
there are millions of
tales in between moans.
I am grinning at
a memory, clear
but surreal, no fear.
You might grasp death which
arrives before mine.
While I write my name
on publications,
you finally take
Sabbatical leave,
in time for content
to preclude more dreams,
in time for me
to make more ambitions.
I am afraid. I
am afraid. I need
to confess. The truth
is fidelity
has been testing me.
With these dreams of you
It, a kinder state.

—
Glorypearl Dy is a fellow of the 2011 Davao Writer’s Workshop. She works as a consultant writer for an outsourcing company.