Carry us in your soft talons

The animal-shaped mirrors in this hall, cariňo, are secretly drawbridges. Each one leads to a different land and time. My favorite? The scarab-shaped mirror that opens to the sands of Egypt, circa 2000 BC. Take my hand, amor, and together, let’s pull the lever shaped like an owl-beaked cherub. The silver beetle separates from the wall and begins to lower. The slow groan of stone against stone fills the air. I recite the ancient prayer of safe passage, “Owl-winged goddess, carry us in your talons, let the winds strike us midflight, teaching us freedom. Keep our heads from dashing against rocks and our thoughts from scattering like leaves…” Five minutes later, the drawbridge is only three-quarters of the way down. “It’s too damn slow,” you say. “Quiet,” I say, “You’re going to offend Tecolota, the goddess of flight.” Suddenly, the bridge squeals to a stand-still. The torches blow out, plunging us into darkness. “Let’s get out of here,” you say, squeezing my wrist. “No,” I say. “Let’s kneel in the shadows and cling to each other. Grow wings, pajarito. Dig your fingernails into my skin, and bleed me. Let Egypt whip us with its sharp-toothed, sand-filled wind. In the scratching storm around us, let’s recall a time when touch meant passage.”