The Medal

You arrived like an odd insect That, upon extending its wings, Belongs to all yet to no one in particular.

The grapevine beetle knows That its time was summer and locusts, And that before that sweltering heat and that music Life is a bale of hay, darkness, and a thin membrane.

It recognizes a purple shell wherein The female, quietly lurking, Yearns to be fire and fruit.

That summer of nineteen hundred and something, I withstood the calumny of my life Like an emblem of molten silver, Without shade, but rich in fruit so sweet That milk and honey were nothing.

Milk, honey, streams Where insects shine And death shimmers when you call my name.

From my neck, Elsa, you dangle snow. It goes burning with me, as we so wished.