Blood

Blood,

the clour

of the baby’s cry

for Mom for milk,

the first since

breaking the tent

of the placenta

when the baby is carried

Downstream on the crest

of incarnadine –

fruitful blood, that is.

Blood,

the colour of the bullet head,

a metallic organ

singing of death

squeezing the natal tent

lending a liquid apple

the colour of the baby never born –

fruitless blood, that is.