Love, war, human rights, famine—Krysl's address to the end of the century.

Marilyn Krysl has found balance in places shaken by deprivation and injury. This is a beautiful book of poetry, not because it is lyrical (though it is), but because it treats suffering with love. It embraces what devours us. It instructs us by example in the way that poetry can be centered, conscionable and intimate. I feel in this book the power of open eyes and open arms. —Marvin Bell

CEASE FIRE: BATTICALOA, SRI LANKA

The war had turned inward until it resembled
suicide. The only soothing thing was water.
I passed the sentries, followed surf out of sight.
I would sink into the elements, become simple.

Surf sounds like erasure, over and over.
I lay down and let go, the way you trust an animal.
When I opened my eyes, all down the strand
small crabs, the bright yellow of a crayon,

had come out onto the sand. Their numbers, scattered,
resembled the galactic spill and volume of the stars.
I, who had lain down alone, emptied,
waked at the center of ten thousand prayers.

Who would refuse such attention. I let it sweeten me
back into the universe. I was alive, in the midst
of great loving, which is all I've ever wanted.
The soldiers of both sides probably wanted just this.