Kapo, the goddess of fertility, rescued her sister Pele the goddess of fire, from rape
by removing her own vagina and flinging it to the sky.
Koko Head is said to be the crater created by the vagina’s landing.

Of course you could remove it, shooting star-like over hills, a flying lure
to save me. The bowl of you that widens for children

and gods, where you pillow firm gladness, and the quake
of you thins into translucent broth across the heavens.

How it spilled and fell to moldthe ground I made for us.
How you hid yourself in a cave after.

Of course, you did that for me, slivered it off to coax
the hog-man away. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t

lift my skirts to remove the warm pull of me, 
the red-stained target of me. 

This simple opening and I: inseparable.
Here is how I see it.

If we are going to create something together,
something out of the throttle of hummingbirds,

a loom of iridescent drums and the weave of chants,
if we are going to create hot mud and femurs and the pleasures of the tongue, 

of mouth, of kiss, of speech, I will burn, mold, and erupt into islands. 
I will attract the lusty pelt of rain, the searing slits of sun.

I know this will mean beasts will come too, the murmur
of desire. No need to sever yourself from yourself for me, 

damp sister, dew sister, to filet the walls of you and hurl yourself
as if you were a salty bone for a hungry dog,

Take my needle to yourself, sweet Kapo.
Teach us to cauterize this wound.  

Born in Mexico, and raised in South Texas, Natalia Treviño is a professor at Northwest Vista College in San Antonio and the award winning author of two collections of poetry: Lavando La Dirty Laundry and VirginX. Raised between disparate worlds, she aims to bridge understandings between those who are separated by borders.