The Dictator En Route to His Burial at the National Heroes' Cemetery
- The Dictator En Route to His Burial at the National Heroes' Cemetery
poetry, R. Linmark Zamora
They fly me in a helicopterinside a bronze casket that sellsat bestpricedcaskets.comfor twelve grand.It didn't have to be majestic;my wife knew better.I don't care for pearly things,velvet interiors, gold handles.Pressed wood would've sufficed.Anything to push my death forward.
Finally, my dummy in a glass casecan rest in peace. It'll be hard.He's had the spotlightfor over a quarter of a century,chilling out with touristsinside a stonewall mausoleum,taking selfies with socialiteswhile Bach played in a loop.He'll miss eavesdropping on StephenKing's morbid fans, pondering overthe shiny forehead,wrinkle-proofed smile.
Yes, folks,it was all wax. Not moisturizer orBotox, as my eldest daughter Imeeonce confided to gullible reporters.After today, the truth will spread [End Page 684]
like late-stage cancer: the corpsethey'd gawked at for over two decadeswas pure and simple wax sculpture,a Tussaud creation flownnonstop to Manila from Strasbourg.
As I slowly make my descentfrom ten thousand feet, I hear Bach'sCantata 156, Ich steh mit einam Fussim Grabe ("I stand with one footin the grave," my anthem since 1989).I look out one last time at the skylinethat I created, the serpentine roadwaysI dug out from the gutters.I spot my wife's collection of culturalbuildings standing on reclaimed land.I see Imee's set of basketballcourts, Bongbong's petting zoo,Irene's concert hall where she hadher first piano recital, andI cannot help but weepat what became of my republic—neglected, filthy, tattered, abandonedfor memories to recoup.
Yet, I must move on.I'm already twenty-seven years latefor Judgment Day.My wife originally wanted a cortegeas long as Roxas Boulevard,from the U.S. Embassyto the fish ponds of Cavite.She said the country owes it to me.It's the least they could do.After all, I gave them a heart and kidneycenter, transformed the poor into patriots,rekindled the misanthropes' love for the nation.I cleaned up their streets,fried the brains of rapists, silenced violators [End Page 685]
of peace. I restored law and order,and, with my wife's vision,housed arts and culture in monumentalbuildings, which our yellow criticsdubbed "Madame's Complex."
Before I died, I told my wifeI didn't want a parade.It's in my will.Nothing fancy.A twenty-one-gun salute will do.So this morning, while they were changingme for the last time,I reminded her of her promise.I told her now is not the timeto be waking up old wounds.Our people need to save their revolution,not for petty things like my burial.They know they can't turn back timebut must learn to accept that historyrepeats itself with variations worse than mine.
Oh, I am prepared for the desecration.I am actually looking forward to themscribbling "Here lie lies" over my epitaph.They'll piss on my marbled name,take their rage to the streets,exhaust their hope fighting the Supreme Courtand the president they'd just elected."Exhume the tyrant!" they'll shout.
I say: Let them.I already paid my dues.God told me so.Let them unearth me.I invite them.Let them open my grave.I won't be there. [End Page 686]
r. zamora linmark is the author of Pop Vérité and three other poetry collections, all from Hanging Loose Press. He's also written two novels, Leche and Rolling the R›s, which he'd adapted for the stage. Forthcoming is his first novel for young adults, The Importance of Being Wilde at Heart. He currently lives in Honolulu and Manila.
