Blood
There is blood on the sidewalk.
There, just outside the door.
Blood, red, a pool that is still moist
and it spreads - dripping over the curb.
This is not metaphoric blood -
the blood of a nation or of a cause.
It is not the blood of innocent babies
plucked from the safety
of their collective wombs.
It is not the blood of a hero,
or of a martyr, or of an innocent victim.
I have cried tonight,
and I cried my heart out.
Copyright © 1997