A plate of oranges slide across the table. Papá thumbs the paper, the Crossroads Man peels rinds watching the wheel outside spin water. Casualties mount, los cuerpos se amontonan like well kerned lines, Papá’s finger tracing newsprint ink for signs. The Rationer would be here soon, counting flecks of grain, charting notations, doling coins. This is not what Papá was promised; war seems a second nature. Citrus stings the absence of morality, his daughter’s hands buried beneath the apple tree sprout a single marigold.

War emanates the sense of landlessness, greed seeding open caverns as men march becoming lifeless limbless ghosts of lawless hunger. She wraps the Prince, his regal coat of arms, a scarf of armor, bufanda de amour, one last beso de mariposa, lashes grasp marry dance her breath upon his cheek rattles his lungs. The trumpet blares el tiembre de un momento mas. His hand circles her belly radiates a seed of future memory he may never meet.

Sugared pears stream estrellas across the lawn katydids and ladybugs snap to attention, the Queen pulling taught the last strand of lace at mi sin manitos waist, fastening her cheek a spot of rouge, un beso de fe. Upon her silver hand sides a ring, el corona del sol, the circlet of heaven. An eruption of cricket song, la musica de almas plays.

With this kiss, a marriage made, the minister prays.