When there are two daughters, one is soft one is swift one can stretch her face to contain honey or humor saline, a bone graft disdain. One cannot bend but knows her place the curtains the floorboard’s tongue- in-groove, the hearthstone.
When there are two daughters there are two moons, both sickle-celled and fawn-eyed. One that sings one that scolds. Both hold their breath under bridges.
Sometimes there are two rivers cutting landscape flooding farms sometimes fire strides forth on two fronts sometimes two stars orbit each other, but these reflect each other’s light and these are not two daughters.
Emily Pérez is the author of the full-length collection, House of Sugar, House of Stone, and the chapbooks Made and Unmade and Backyard Migration Route. A CantoMundo fellow, her recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, Copper Nickel, Fairy Tale Review, and Poetry. She teaches English and Gender Studies in Denver, where she lives with her husband and sons.