acknowledging
that war
can make my blood
sing a little

means only
that I know myself
and the animal somewhere
within

if I pet him
the right rough way
now and then
he stays quiet mostly

I’m at peace
with the bloodsong
I do not deem it necessary
to pretend I cannot hear it

and will not deny
that I know how war
is a part of me
settled on my hands

as tightly
as skin
snuggled cozily in my mouth
sharp as teeth

and why else does my blood
burst scarlet from my wounds
as if it were the chorus
of a grand opera 

as red as all other blood
from all other wounds
blazing the aria
of the common nature of all 

who refuses us
entrance
calling foul
on us
saying
the door is closed

we should say
pfffft
we’re too wide for that door
and far too stubborn
to turn sideways
and try to get inside
on his command alone

who then turns away from us
to hide his stuff

pity him and not ourselves
for we can make our own
as anyone can
and as countless anyones have
for as long as there’s been
breath