To Know the Blood
Location
The barista cries,
One skim milk, vanilla latte,
with a double shot of social injustice!
My hands wrap around a steaming cup of
a million years in a landfill.
A sip of broken community scalds
my tongue. I take another sip.
My bagel,
soil of the great plains,
a bite of the dustbowl smeared
with milk stolen from someone else’s child.
My car,
fueled by Rhachistia aldabrae,
sores on my mother’s back,
the fall of great nations.
Washed by the hands of immigrants given
less personhood than a corporation.
A gallon of regular unleaded costs
three dollars and eighty-nine point nine sense,
eighty nine point nine sense of shame,
guilt,
a shrug of what can you do?
I travel on a road paved
with the souls of future generations.
To arrive at fluorescent lights,
board meetings,
white privilege,
and more sour coffee.
So tell me,
please, tell me,
how it is,
how it has come to be,
because I want to know,
I want to know the blood.
Because I can’t see it on
my hands,
but it’s dripping from
my wallet.
And it’s only 9:00.