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) 

Sloane Shearman

Sloane lives in Arlington, Virginia, where she manages academic marketing at the intersection of philosophy, politics, and economics. Prior to moving to the Washington, D.C. area she studied biological anthropology at Penn State and served as a counselor on a crisis and basic needs hotline. Her interests include starting a renaissance and taking long walks by herself.

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