Blood
I am blood—fennel and mint-spiced,
a tired line of arthritic fingers, strained
eyes. I am cold Brooklyn nights,
apartment houses, frosted front windows
facing the El. I am curses, spells,
bowlfuls of oil and salt, a language gasping
near-dead, soft Cs and Ps, clipped vowels
lodged deep in the back of my throat.
I am broken baptisms, dark spirits
who fed like leeches on a priest’s missing
words, slithered their way into bedrooms.
I am rosaries, rosemary, saint statuettes.
I am needle and thread.
I stitch coats for ghosts out of poems.
by Ja'net Danielo
from The 2River View, Fall 2016
.