My grandmother climbed the balete tree and disappeared
forever. There, where the branches are draped in themselves,
the tree that roots in the air. Where nobody could tell her
what was real or unreal, nobody could say that a sound wasn’t
there. Climbed the balete into the under-husk of the world where
everything exists. And I am scared that one day I will make the climb,
that I will hear them too, that they were always there. My skin
will peel back like summer bark, and I will find roots among my hair.