Sanguine

All the bruises like petunias
blooming violent shades of pink and purple
against ashy, wrinkled skin
to skin alive, is that what they’re trying to do

outside people wait for me to make up my
mind can’t handle what’s going–
what’s going– what’s going on.

Their eyes see headlines and peril and me and
their minds say foreign; I’m not meant to be
here in the States in this state

of confusion and chaos and violence we birth
century-old movements and ancient fear is the midwife.

I wish I could say these are labor pains of change,

but they feel more like labor pains of chains

that crush the young and slaughter the old.

Granny’s blood on the pavement

little red poppies

the same shade her attacker saw.