She moved rapidly over the ground, alongside the Salween trench where hell dogs slathered their steel lips in conquest, beasts collecting the night’s wordless skies. She fell hard upon the scorched ground, her slender legs slapping the stony loam. I cradled her wet face against my chest to gentle her howling heart. She smiled and stroked my face, then her mouth leapt upon mine and our hands curved into flames as we pushed deep into the brush. Wordless, we spoke of our hopes and fears, the beasts hard upon our backs, the children and their mother’s shriek, the lifeless weeping stirred by the heartless. The sick and the dying were with us, between our moving lips and fingers, upon our union of sweat and flesh underneath the forlorn heavens. And within our merger of silence we knew, at long last, there was no more need to run. © 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)