Among the cold morning glories of dawn
I held the wind in my mouth.
What guitar rises to the soprano of boats—
Why roses instead of arms?
From the ledge of lips, the grammar of crows
Consists mainly, one hopes, of hyphens.
Harken the finches in the bathtub of centuries.
A bed is the moon’s favorite spot.
What bounces between oranges and owls shall be yours.
Who plays hopscotch in the sky
Throwing stars to the hungry tongues of squares
Shall be mine.
Eva Skrande’s poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, The Iowa Review, Ploughshares, Alaska Quarterly, Cortland Review, and Prick of the Spindle, among others. Her book, “My Mother’s Cuba,” was published in River City Publishing’s Poetry Series. She lives and teaches in Houston, Texas.