Blood

Poetry

I would take all your injuries

and put them on my body.

 

The swell of blood up and out

would be my own.

 

The way it falls tearing out of you

to swallow in me and become

 

that magic river of pain and painless

that granted thing that once spilled

 

congeals and stains a dangerous red.

When you were born your whole skin held you

 

so complete yourself so fine and finished

the skin of your heel that spread to shape your eye.

 

I, breathless with wonder at what had fallen out of me ,

found falling the clasping point; the broken thing was me.

 

Made of blood and so brimming with it

that I could weep and weep and not lose you,

 

and you go and damage yourself against

this ramshackle world never to lose me.

 

 

 

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