I’m so glad I didn’t know
the last time was the last time
we went through the white gate
up the field, that I was able to turn
homeward happy. Lord, protect me

from last times and if you cannot
protect me from last times protect me
from knowing. Take everyone
suddenly, close the gate
suddenly. Tell me nothing.

In separate incubators one of the twins was dying.
Against doctor’s orders, a nurse put them together.

The strong twin, the one with nothing
pulling her back, she slung
her newly born arm over
the one who was wanting to leave,
and stabilised her heartbeat, made everything
regular in the body of the one who’d already
had enough.

The strong one, she will think
she is God, that she can pull back
life from where it was going.
It will be harder for her
than for the one who already knows
about separation, loneliness, where
they can make you want to go.

Like your ancestors who called
prostitutes ‘bringers of happiness’
I bring you happiness.

I go to another bed, you follow me,
pull back the sheets, look at me
as though I am a mythical creature,

flowers being made from my hair,
fine grass from my skin.
The coyote emplumado

has followed me home from the museum
with an appetite to be the labeller
not the labelled.

Yesterday you called me wife,
amor, chaparrita.
Now my label is the oldest there is

and when you say it in your language
I perform it in mine.
You lie back, feathers everywhere.