From The Huntress It’ s time to go up to your front door, Mother,
and ring the rattling buzzer of a bell,
the door with two curved fangs.
I go in, into the muscular throat of the hall,
down the tunnel that’ s closing now
to a pinpoint of light.
I’ m in the swallowing living-room,
washing it for you, half-alive,
like a man preparing for the rain-dance
in the dry arroyo. He reaches
into the pit and washes the snakes
so that later when he dances with the ‘ little mothers’
in his mouth, they won’ t bite.
I’ m a child playing in the pen
with my pet rattlers,
giving them bread and milk.
As long as I’ m unscared
they won’ t strike. And you’ re saying,
“ Only a girl-child can do this” .
My cheeks are almost seamless now,
countless grafts hide the necrosis.