you will know she is a poetess
if she likes to wear long-sleeves
long-sleeves that hide the scars
long-sleeves that hold her bruised arms together
long-sleeves with a slit near the shoulder
where she tried to wear her heart
(but poured it out in ink instead)

she will have long hair
or walk like she does
because hair is memory
cutting it is like erasing yesterday's you
restyling it is like recreating you.
her hair will have leaves in it
and leftover twine
from the flower crown she wears
or if she is the daring kind
her hair will have silverdust
(proof of how close her words
got her to the moon)

if she smiles and laughs
and never shows pain
she is a poetess
because a poetess writes her hurt down
in free verses and half-finished sonnets
and she cries not on a boy's shoulder
but on paper where her tears are caught by
the swooping syllables and dauntless denotations
making her words come alive
(because where there is water, there is life)

if you meet a person and assume she is a poetess
check first her palms
(if she will show them to you)
they must show no sign of ink
(for a poetess is sometimes secretive)
no, you must be able to trace the constellations
along the creases of her palm
smell the rocket smoke
and see the nebulae dotting her flesh
where she managed to catch stars.
congratulate her
and maybe, she will lift the hem
of her long pearl blue skirt
and show you the wings on her ankles
and if you're lucky, she will tell you story
upon story
upon story.

if you are able to tell a poetess from a person
and you find her,
keep her.
keep her close to where
the drums of your soul beat from
keep her next to your dreams of sailing and pink seas
keep her in the mental list you keep
of people you will never, ever leave
(and she will keep you, too)

when she dies,
wrap her body in a white Ilocos blanket.
use no coffin.
let the earth swallow her up
(but don't let it swallow her words)
tend to the fire she left you
plan to set out on a quest
to look
for other word-weavers
because it is impossible to live without
these storytellers
then go back to her writing desk
touch the last thing she held
and look for a hole
a false drawer
a hidden key
anything that keeps.
and i promise you,
you will find
more poems.
and if you spread each page out on the floor
its letters will rearrange
and form your name
and point you to a poem hidden
in a pocket she sewed inside her coat
and the first line will read,


"how to tell if she is a poetess"

I wanted to fall from a tree with a noose tightly hugging my neck
Because there were things haunting me that I couldn't forget
But you came out of no where and surrounded me with love
You saved me from the pain I was constantly thinking of

Months passed and you continued to kiss the scars that were engraved in my skin
Suddenly it didn't seem so impossible to be happy again
You promised me you'd never leave and that you'd always keep me safe
You told me that you loved me and I told you just the same

One night the phone rang; first your parents then the police
And for the first time in years I dropped down to my knees
Prayed to a god that I was sure didn't exist
I needed you to be safe and I was desperate

With a few hours of sleep I woke up to hear my dad on the phone whispering "oh god"
And suddenly I knew what had went on
I fell to my knees again but not to pray
I screamed in agony "you promised you wouldn't leave me"

So for weeks I didn't eat and struggled to sleep
The hospital was my new home and I got pills handed to me
I created more scars in patterns that screamed I was in pain
Because my lover had killed himself in the rain

Its not your fault my dear but I think it's a shame
That I got left worse then I came
I miss you my lover, my saviour, my best friend.
One day soon I'll join you and we'll be together again.

So allow me to use your lungs and your breath as my inhaler.
Because my lungs are forever severed, so be as my tailor.

Hesitation in my inhales will be the interpretation of your respire.
A seen misconception of a falling chest to the resurrection by a deep breath.

But the oxygen you gasp for will be appropriated to fuel my fire.

Drifting next to me is the spilling of your lungs,
cloak for inconsistency,
armor for what I confront.  
A refugee for the alterations and the changes.
Your spine is an easel as your body the canvas.

Let me paint you a pretty picture
Reflected to the pupils in your eyes
Darker than the trench that allows you to see the beautiful lies.

Couplets of brush strokes and puppets that you choke
The air you abuse, now CO2
Is the kindle to my fire.