What To Do With Our Wings
You said you wanted to get under my
wing because your life was dissolving.
You did not tell me what you lost,
but you contain your solution.
Our bodies barely
hold our waters.
Women sail into the sea
every twenty eight days,
wax and now, wane,
know a time to break down
and a time to build up.
We wait to see what comes next.
Every year, Monarch butterflies pause
in Angangueo on their migration route.
One settles on a branch,
then thousands,
and the tree bends with color.
They live several months —
Males die first —
with knowledge of the route
dripping from their wings.
You have the power
of Michoacan spring.
Whisk your wings
alive with color;
migrate north
where rivers are born.