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.