Dionne Blaha

The Blood of Birds

The blood of birds

flies through you,

how can you not know?

You’re not sleepy,

you are no more dead

than a grain of rice,

questions in clouds,

beetles for color,

ants your relatives,

burning through mountains.

Rouse yourself,

saintly one,

for there is much to do

and your sisters can’t do it for you.

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