Heaven, in my mind,
has a gate made of wood;
no angels herald my coming,
nor clouds collect at my feet.
The air dresses itself
in the scent of chocolate, of coffee,
drawing me deeper to where
an aged acacia table waits—
where Lolo spreads
his roasted beans to cool;
where Lola molds
her tableya silt to coins.
This is where they used to eat
along with their eight children,
and the silence of a child
they lost to a strange fever.
Somewhere in this heaven
is a rooster pecking,
pecking the seconds away
of my two-hour siesta,
and when it cries, Lola knows
it’s time to pick a packet of crackers
from her sari-sari display
to reward an obedient boy.
To pair with it,
Lolo boils hot water for milk,
and while the fire twirls under the pot,
he summons a song from a leaf-trumpet.
Before the sun lowers, I am beneath
the water apple and sorrel trees,
hands open to falling filaments—
soft confetti the bees have loosened.
This is how I thought heaven to be:
this house, this table, this light—
and them, still waiting,
as if I had only been away,
as if no time had passed at all.
Arvin Narvaza
Arvin Narvaza writes from Cagayan de Oro. Currently, he is on study leave to pursue a doctorate degree, but he is, nevertheless, a faculty member of the Communication Arts, Languages, and Literature unit of the University of Science and Technology of Southern Philippines (USTP).Arvin’s poems have appeared in Bisaya Magasin(Manila Bulletin), Dagmay Literary Journal, and Habi. He will also be read in a forthcoming issue of Hong Kong’s Voice and Verse Poetry Magazine.
