Sor Juana's Children

Your children

travel well.

They hide inside

soft faces of paper gowns,

from your hand into the land

of those who picture you an ageless leaf, a first communion.

And, as I ovulate each month

I count and accrue my 264 eggs of a lifetime

that sing your poems

as they pass

into oblivion.

My eggs, the not so well written poems,

the tragic circles

that never learned to be,

acuatic,

the almost born inceptions

of a cobble stone

that chose to make an echo of a woman every time

we set foot on our monthly library carpet,

while your eggs look upon me from the shelf.