Spilled Blood
There’s no use crying over spilled blood
she hums, scrubbing
The stains are easy enough to avoid just
Use cold water and soap
some elbow grease
and forgetfulness
The afternoon light pours over the place where
her lipstick has smeared
dark crimson
as above
so below her hands
red water
Blessed are the bombmakers
because all the petty children want a reason for their sorrow
They feel in their small, animal bodies
a battle denied
All spirit and neuroentropy
and far closer to God in their wildness
their ached-for wilderness
than in these fluorescent penitentiaries
orderly rows and bright, clean, linoleum
And frowning women
(The men have all gone off
but not to war)
[Read “Thirty Miles at Sea“]
Sloane is a writer in Arlington, Virginia. Her interests include art, culture, and politics.