She bundles in speechless layers of white,
each curve an afterthought.  Her hem
bobbing at her ankles, she holds a shaft of wheat,
an ear of corn, between thin-boned fingers.

She will not raise eyelids, skirts, issues.

Her last cry may be from the belly of a volcano.
She pleases gods.

Her mind wears a scarlet alphabet,
spells out all the names, the midnight harvests,
her body closes with a ring.

She may marry late.
She may never marry.

The lion always comes before her.

Night upon night,
that stiff position
is pinned in the stars.