There is one tree on the land and the one tree looks like it is skinned and unclothed and when the wind is on the tree in the morning the fined branches of the one tree begin to clamor and some of the branches break and the woman watches because she is naked.
The woman is in the house that is next to the one tree and she is naked and she is barren and she does not like her body because it does not turn round in the afternoons after the dry skin dripped men come and do the returns in sauced dribbles and re-runs.
Around the sides of the house—torn into the foundations like a pebbled troop that ate the inside of its leaders and spit the nearly beheaded thrones onto the broken earth—is a cemetery that the supposed great Colon was buried shortly after he murdered a sorceress woman, a woman whose grandfather lactated at the sight of cow blood and told white man ghost stories in his smoked adobe house.
“Cu-cu, a come again and come again!”
The woman turns to pray and already she has eyes that make her look like a church—these are the seeded women that bare nakedness and flaunt themselves as collapsed and re-created individuals so defined through the mercy, and pity, and dearthless sanctions of the fathers.