My lover hides her pain on the bodyof horses, say horses carry Edenas they gallop into battle. She saysher ancestors are horse riders,and she has learned the language of horsesfrom their mouths. My lover worshipshorses and speaks of a timewhen everything will become a horse,galloping in between the gaps that separatepeople, that break them into the linesof maps. Meanwhile, my ancestors arewood-carvers, I know the nameof every tree in the woods, and the treesknow my name, I can hear the heartbeatof every tree, and they knowmy voice like a mother knowsthe voice of her child. The tree ismy mother and my body is elopedto the bark of a tree, and the treeand I are one. There are voicesin the trees, and only the circumcisedcan decipher the drumbeat. I givethe tree my pains to carry them,to rock them like a mother rocksher child. There is a town-hall meetingin the tree, and my ancestors are singingthe song of yesterday and their bodiesare a graffiti of history, and my bodyis the map of their tomorrow,where my lover and I are a body of horsesand trees and carry a new breedof people in our loins. We say to war,you’re a yesterday that yields no fruitand we ride our horses to Eden and tracemaps on the bark of trees and openthe gates into the country of our ancestorswhere we kneel before a host of horse ridersand wood-carvers and give our bodiesto their bodies, and we become a body,a country of burnt offerings.