There were, my trumpet, at least seven directions between us,
    the wolves exiled just east of your hair's allegories
    and the western corner of your shoulder
    where birds come with their sirens to celebrate
    our corn's anniversary. How easily along the coast
    of your thighs fish flew, how northerly
    the wind that gathered empires at your waist.
    At the center of the red-throated earth, the lion played
    with the lamb. South of us, the weary wed horses.
    O stars, stray tendrils of war's disobedience
    under which the ant lies down with the soldier.
    O corn that crosses over the barracks of destiny.
    The earth was our witness that night we held our breath
    and filled her four corners with peace.

Copyright © Eva Skrande, 2002.  All Rights Reserved.