Kelley Citrin

I have pulled a long black hair from my mouth, 
and it tastes like iron.
They are sharpening names
to be placed on pikes,
and raised against neighbors and strangers;
howling from wounds scrubbed with salt.

I fear those who think blood is just a word.
It's a mouth. A mother. 
It will crawl under your door and lick your face while you sleep.
It will birth a thousand wet, red children in your streets.
You will have to learn its language. You will have to learn its name.
You will finally have the war you wanted,
your hands sticky with it, 
and you will wear its skin as a crown,
and you will wonder why the silence is so loud,
and why it feels so much like a mouth, 
full of your own name.