I threaten the umbilical phone cord with scissors, while she skins countries for their pelts, drinking the colours of each and every world flag. My flying tomahawk always brings her scalps home. She says ‘Conquistador’ and fingers tingle. (The Aztec Empire is ours for the taking girly.)

The equator between us, I still sense her hands forever disappearing into bags and frisking for keys with archaeological muscle. Her native shuffle, and underwear stretching over time into things like elephant ears. (Find love in canyons, and then hide it in your bladder. Artists should never marry artists.)

Our myths were dispelled long ago—I am not the product of two sexing cacti, nor did gypsies leave me swaddled in fodder and unknown curses. I am the stuff of bright joke shop gore, and will squawk at the world just as she has. (Now away with your barely-bum—go save boys’ hearts from their skinny chests.)

We plan to meet like witches in Barbados, kiss the hems of our own skirts and prophesies on vomit-woven benches. I’ll point at cliffs I’d sooner jump off than be a mother. (We should learn the art of hanging up. Our tongues were always the most meat in our bodies.)