To Know the Blood


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,


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.


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