A Warrior’s Blood Clot:

Judgement is a giant crouched
trying desperately to fit. 

Rotten potatoes ferment
in a wine-less cabinet 
the men are sleeping
restlessly their bellies weep

for nutrients, 
for dreams

acid sliding peacefully 
side to side
no lining left to burn 
the art of destruction fades
forming shriveled arteries.

There is nothing in a name worth recognizing
unless it’s branded like the bottles collected
and displayed instead of dolls, in place of affection

Grandfather said it would help us grow up strong,
but we simply grew up the same
as the morning rose
and glass eyes blew fire across 
broken tables 

the woman pled
may our liquored veins be emptied
and our sorrows washed down
a disappearing river of regret
we formed a lonely island 
where no one could watched us drown.

Grandfather said unsteady hands could shoot no sparrow,
yet he still took another sip.

© Kathrynn Roosevelt