MARC PEREZ

The Fort

You run in a ruined theatre 
of war. Ride dead artilleries, a display of tourist 
paraphernalia, as if on a seesaw. Under the canopy 

of mango trees, you clap at clumps of green 
fruits overhead, craving its sour tang 
on your tongue. Detonated 

santol litter the ground, baring soft, 
decaying flesh and seeds. Nearby, 
the porticoed carcass of an imperial barracks 

mocks like the skeletons that frequent my nightmares,
calcified walls like bodies 
riddled with your other ancestors’ bayonets and bullets.

No innocence remains intact:
They’re still here, I tell you.
	The spectre, a haunting.