C. Dale Young
Blood
Someone has already pulled a knife
across my chest, and the rope has already
gripped our wrists drawing blood.
I am naked, and I cannot be sure
if you are as well. In the room, the men
come and go, yelling blood bath, half-blood,
blood-bitch. We never hear the word trueblood.
In my dreams I am dying all the time.
We are bound and gagged, blindfolded,
but still I know you must be the one
lying there, the cool anodized steel table
beneath us, the two of us side by side.
Lying there, my shoulder blades ache,
and there is blood collecting in
the corners of my mouth. But then it happens,
just as it always happens: your fingers
suddenly twist into tiny shoots, your arms
break free as you accept the shape
of a tree, the leaves sprouting, the delicate
bark rising up from your skin's surface.
Try as I might, I never seem able.
On the telephone this morning, I again
keep the dream to myself. Half-blood
becomes half-breed. Blood-bitch
becomes blood-sister. But blood never lies,
does it? Blood carries so many secrets
one can only hear its murmurs in our arteries,
its incessant monologue, in the quiet
night's bed just before sleep. Blood says
You are more and, sometimes, You are less.
