SEVEN DIRECTIONS
http://www.maverickmagazine.com/articles/171/1/----SEVEN-DIRECTIONS/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 05/3/2002
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
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
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.
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.