Eva SKRANDE

SEVEN DIRECTIONS

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.

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