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PAGEEva SKRANDE
TULIP
Tulip of my dreams, tulip of my emptiness,
tulip which follows the moon
that rides off with the wolf's head.
O horses and linen, buried, soundly asleep
where my tongue meets the winds of March.
Blue jays chronicle our hands' rosary.
Once we were a steeple that ignited birds.
Once paradise flowed between our tongues' juniper.
That horse is lucky which grazes the earth our lips tilled.
The same horse fills the aqueduct
with the moon's redemption.
O that you might enter me again and bloom.
A thousand spinsters still feed off our thirst's light.
Copyright © Eva Skrande, 2002. All Rights Reserved.