Gatekeepers

1. A crow gliding over a ravine was The sign his eyes were waiting for. They thought they were ready to cross. The tumbleweed listening to a cricket And seeing a line of ants snaking in Was the figure of his younger sister, Huddled by him, asking for a campfire. They made it as far as a roadside store And held their hands over the electric coils. When asked if they were going to buy anything, Their tongues broke off into halves And fell to the floor like Popsicles. 2. My father says I was born to translate What he could only nod to for years. He also says that God made a mistake By blurring out his eyes first because He can hear her asking for a blanket. She saw a church adorned with hipbones, Sun-bleached, and beautiful as curved jewelry. She dreamt of its wide doors, and after dipping Her finger in His palm, she felt His warmth. My father says that cactus needles fly And burn like the memory of lost ones, Then he tells me I was born to study The sand trails and notice when footsteps Drag and turn to knee and handprints. Those are ones I need to follow, he says.