Widower's Song

Eva SKRANDE

WIDOWER'S SONG
--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.

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