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.