Blood Sacrifice

Art by Maggie Cusick (2017 archive)

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I need you to know how gently

they love me

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on my wrists and ankles, kissing stars and jewels up

those stairs of my body which wind,

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twisting, towards the heart. My lovers

are tiny and winged, grey-black like a storm, like

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the stone of our porch, sharp-mouthed. They are kind:

picnicking near my estuaries and letting the springs flow like air

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in the tops of mountains, my heart: hill grass,

geese—the sky like water and just as sweet.

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I’m not as kind—I sit on my hands til someone shouts

break, then drain the river. Daytime thief, dry-

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lipped, my phone rings in the symphonies, dark eyes too

wide. But this is not my point.

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I’m trying to tell you how it is to be loved, even though

they don’t like my best friend—creek-haired and stream-

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slim—as much as me, even though I am left red and full

of spit or venom, even though malaria kills.

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In the hot September sky, Isabel placed a crescent-shaped almond

cookie in my hands—she’d ordered ages ago, but stuck to my periphery

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and here we are, together. The lake is deeper, not a story,

or perfect like I thought. Friendship chapped

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and sweeter than roses. Don’t be surprised:

It takes altars, life. So, what? We are sniffly and bodied

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and we walk each other to class in braids, spinning

our lives into delicate lace, and it hurts,

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of course, to be this close to heaven, to pour

blood into rivers, to be food and sinew, or tables

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on the sliding bench at dusk with my friend

and my lovers, itchy and pink and smiling.

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