My Blood Wrote This Poem
Blood is a juxtaposition.
It propels us to life, racing
through angel-hair veins, anxious
and wind-pressed.
Coursing, it clings, cell-to-cell
incubating heat like asphalt. Blood never recedes–
it pours, warm and slick,
a burst of molten mineral encroaching
over scarred land.
Finally it freezes into resolute clusters,
drained of luster, ashen
and earthy.
Blood always lives
until the last.
