There are always
unmarried women, women
with flesh unblemished
by even the wind of a caress,
with tactile sheen unmarred
by so much as a smudge
of fingerprint, or kiss.

Their wombs are
undiscovered wilderness,
soundless, full of space,
neither preceived
nor traversed by nomad
or prince.  In their rooms,
the desolate peace of
distance and pilgrimage.

No one arrives.

Locked doors and curtains
drawn flush protect from
no armies the unravaged fields
which, nonetheless, come
never to harvest.

No armies.

Wherever there is war,
the fields come never to harvest.
Wherever there is war, there are,
always, unmarried women.