It is us seasoning this land

A poem about the blood
that soaks our land

is not about who spilled the most—

though it should be clear

who spilled the least,

who took so much

and gave so little—

but it is about our mingled DNA,

delivered on rivers of blood

and rivers of tears

and the sweat of hard labor

and the joy of ecstatic dancing

and the wet and rapid breathing

that happens day

and happens night.

 

I leave behind a piece of me

wherever I might go

and on the way

I pick a piece

of you.

 

I never ask

whose blood is this,

whose tears seed the rain,

whose bare feet tamp the path,

because I know this,

all of it is us

and ours.

 

And if a postscript

must supplement

what we spread and share,

then we should act

together, like it all

belongs to us.

It is us.