There were many versions of the man

who stood before a column of tanks.

A student said he was a friend

of a friend of a friend— he woke up

hung-over in Cubao and still managed

to submit his thesis before he vanished.

His wife swore he was home that afternoon;

at sundown he was gone, the TV

was on. San Miguel was alone watching

soap operas with a plate of peanuts.

Some saw him being pulled away

by masked bystanders; he was later found

in a secret stockroom in Camp Crame.

Others professed to have known his real name,

a myth passed around like Nardong Putik

in Imus and Zapote. In other accounts,

he was dead—various witnesses saw him

murdered in Nagtahan, buried in a concrete-

filled drum in Pateros, run over by a bus

near Pantranco, his skull exploding

like a husked coconut on the asphalt.

The official report said he simply didn’t

exist, and like Trotsky disappearing

in photos of the revolution, the footage

showed the tanks halting for no reason,

trying to drive around no one,

perplexed like winter cranes.