Blood

My blood has been refused,
   turned around, 
     and shown to the door
         with all due propriety.
My blood is quiet.
     It will not scream or disrupt,
  though it often wants to break
    through the rubber sheet of silence
             and roar like a hungry chasm.
My blood has known love,
              beautiful love,
         as pure and untainted 
   as a little girl's white party dress.
Passion has pumped through my veins,
    wailing in ecstasy.
My blood has lain in the arms of a lover,
   swaddled in flesh
      warmed by breath
         bathed with sweat.
My blood has pained in the loss of love,
     sobbing at betrayal,
         curled up foetal style. 
My blood has rediscovered love
          reveling in it unashamedly. 
Through all of this-
                all of the fluids and winds
                           the fires and frosts-      
my blood has escaped unscathed
   to race through my body, 
      strong and violent.
Despite this, it is now dismissed 
  as a fool relishing his own foolishness.
The world is frightened of my blood.
  It is criminal because
    it is powerful.
Yet, my blood lives, flows,
   and will be heard.




  


    

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