it doesn’t cut – the port
in the picture, leaning
on a shirt under the bed,
or the ticket stubs
on the walls (old dates,)
the photos of gifts
from better people.

more than one face
brought that old grief,
the past can’t bleed
unless it’s all you know.

“Bloodied Roots”

beneath black boughs
drinking in sun and rain,
we bled ourselves
among the roots.

wind ran through valleys,
catching dead leaves
and dead men – it screamed
through lives lost and lived.

our Gods dined on blood and salt,
freely spilt and freely given –
they sheltered us, hinted at unknowables
and watched while we were cut down.