For Marisol Baca
If chickadees were born to the tune of oxblood,
how brighter would their bodies be? If Sor Juana wrote to the Marquess in oxblood, what would her commandments be? Fold this paper in quarters to make a bed to sleep in or not sleep in. I say that a bed is only good for two things. Don’t eat regret and orange rinds in bed. That’s what my love is. Nuns cup their palms to laugh behind a stone. The scent of birth stalks the rain until it grows more women. There would be a city of women riding into this city on oxen.