Repurposing a Bleed
Shey Marque
My blood too is up-welled from other existences, winnowed to iron, fertiliser, salt, & the redolent scent of prey in the stain loved equally by stable fly & wolf. In the moment of shedding some women, no longer in thrall to riding the cotton pony, empty their cups to plants, & with the tipping of nine parts water to flush away salt, turn their tea on tomatoes, on lettuce. One more monthly ritual where the red bloom unfurls, a dying brother has a specimen taken for testing in the lab, & I would bring it home for the roses. His blood never could stop growing— there’s something immortal about the nucleus. But what it liberates, promises nothing to the snapdragons lasting just a season, trying the rigour of what it means to be deathless.
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