She hides behind the mirror of my soul
and hides her tongue, but I sense her 

staring, trembling, wondering 
when she'll be free from the burden 

of hiding to survive. Masquerading 
comes at the cost of losing one's face. 

We make a deal: I trade her face to keep our body, 
and we can live another day while we slowly die inside. 

The colonizer killed her, tried to at least, 
with swords to slash her flesh—with words, also,
 
to seal his evil spirit in her image. Centuries ago, 
I see her, hiding, residing at the base of a balete tree,

smiling in resistance until last breath. I find her 
buried beneath the ruins and rubble of memory and trauma, 

pesky weeds bursting through concrete, glowing 
with divine whispers. It's hard to hear, but I hold 

her while we wrestle with the weight of the world 
crumbling all around us. Hell's empire burning

children alive, demonizing any who dare oppose. The master 
and the machine are one and the same; its engine hums 

and coughs as it churns 
our body-mind-spirit en masse

into fuel and spits poison
into us, the land, the water, the air—

all the spaces 
within us, between us,

are sacred, and the woman knows
her existence reflects portals to other worlds