"Aubade," Honor Moore

The south wind is presented as an eagle
no matter what she does to draw him
as heated sky, open daisy, an elm
where there are no elms.

She wears night gloves to water flowers
that bloom only in the dark, whose
scent rifles her sleep, whose petals close
at the hint of light.

At his gold cry, the rooster's crown
flares: voluminous horizon
window opening, a parade of dead soliders.
This is what she'd dreamed

before waking, before his feet undid
her bashfulness and day opened like an egg.

From Red Shoes, the third collection of poems from Honor Moore, published last summer. A memoir, The Bishop's Daughter, will be published later this year.