WIDOWER'S SONG
http://www.maverickmagazine.com/articles/116/1/WIDOWERS-SONG/Page1.html
Eva Skrande
Eva Skrande was born in Havana, Cuba and grew up in Miami. She earned a B.A. from Sarah Lawrence College, an M.F.A. from Iowa, and is currently finishing a Ph.D. in Creative Writing at the University of Houston. Her poems have appeared in the American Poetry Review, American Voice, Iowa Review, Ploughshares, and the Alaska Quarterly, among others. Her chapbook, the Gates of the Somnambulist was published by Jeanne Duval EditionsBy Eva Skrande
Published on 11/7/2000
--after Tomas Salamun
--for my uncle
To stand in the blink of the cemetery as between centuries
And hide from the river of oxen.
To go with the bones, to go with the bones.
To refuse the dust of the harp. There's no difference
Between the promise of death's aubade and the laugh of nails.
To offer the tongue as sacrilege, forego the crows on the moon's ledge.
To rid the ship of the star's cheekbones.
Your last breath becoming the earth's yawn.
To dance with you, to face the bread and its tide once more.
And to count the horses in the window. An army
Of sighs waiting to avenge your death. To run toward the desert's eyes
And drink history from the heart of persimmons.
To feel the loaf rising in the heart of the dove.
To obliterate the sweat of corn. To follow your eyebrow's curve
To the earth's edge. To resurrect with your sleep,
The valley behind the valley of death.
Copyright © Eva Skrande, 2001. All Rights Reserved.
To stand in the blink of the cemetery as between centuries
And hide from the river of oxen.
To go with the bones, to go with the bones.
To refuse the dust of the harp. There's no difference
Between the promise of death's aubade and the laugh of nails.
And hide from the river of oxen.
To go with the bones, to go with the bones.
To refuse the dust of the harp. There's no difference
Between the promise of death's aubade and the laugh of nails.
--after Tomas Salamun
--for my uncle
To stand in the blink of the cemetery as between centuries
And hide from the river of oxen.
To go with the bones, to go with the bones.
To refuse the dust of the harp. There's no difference
Between the promise of death's aubade and the laugh of nails.
To offer the tongue as sacrilege, forego the crows on the moon's ledge.
To rid the ship of the star's cheekbones.
Your last breath becoming the earth's yawn.
To dance with you, to face the bread and its tide once more.
And to count the horses in the window. An army
Of sighs waiting to avenge your death. To run toward the desert's eyes
And drink history from the heart of persimmons.
To feel the loaf rising in the heart of the dove.
To obliterate the sweat of corn. To follow your eyebrow's curve
To the earth's edge. To resurrect with your sleep,
The valley behind the valley of death.
Copyright © Eva Skrande, 2001. All Rights Reserved.