Blood

It burns with buried light. It is a soil
rich with iron brought to melting point

and cooled to the clandestine warmth
of lanterns. Spread thin, it is as tenuous

as testimony from a blanching face;
yet testimony nonetheless,

this stream that carries like a folded note
your family name. One day that stream could be

the ink with which you sign your life away.

Still, let us take a moment to exalt
the oneness of your scarlet ocean’s salt

tenacity—it circles even now…
A crime that it should ever end in billows

pooling, crawling across the floor, a tarred
ghost. Ironic that the tide should end

almost as slow, and almost the shade
of sundowns.