Pigs’ Blood

Terror spills like pigs’ blood

on the slaughterhouse floor

soaked up by sawdust

but the smell-

you can smell the blood

and the terror

four blocks away

where between the old row houses

women hang laundry to dry

and half-clothed children play.

Holding Hope

The life expectancy of a newborn

is little more than that of a monarch.

Their wings are so fragile.

Each downy hair, each tiny feather,

holds so much hope.

underwater

strong jaws close around her ankle

and loneliness  pulls her down

with a sucking sound,

gnashing its teeth and thrashing its tail

and rolling her over and over and over

until she lies limp in the water.

Blind Fish

Ecstasy and agony,

and the river is not burdened.

In the desert darkening,

camels cry to Heaven.

The blind fish fly into the sky,

and the women are forgiven.

Bittern

Do not tell me

not to dwell in bitterness

for I dwell in the desert

and the sand is arid and dry

and scratches raw my throat

whenever I speak.

Do not tell me

not to dwell in bitterness

for I shall eat of the acrid herbs

until I am full of them

and only then will they pass

from my body,

leaving clean my heart,

my hands, my soul.

Chewing Bullets

Aren’t you ever going to let go?

You’re hands are going to turn to claws,

holding on that hard.

Haven’t you chewed enough bullets?

You’re going to break your teeth,

and anyway, my wounds are already bleeding.