She Was Born a Slave

A woman is a bloody thing.          
Since the endometrium began to cleanse.          
There used to be an Apache Sunrise Dance          
for celebration.        
       
But she- this woman was truly a bloody thing.        
She gave birth in her youth to engagement rings        
that knotted her heart until muddy divorce        
burst the woven vagus nerve to start again.        
       
She had a child now        
and a crimson hand from another one        
her family begged her not to have   and that dependable man        
that shoved her six-months due,        
so at least everyone else aligned        
on the scar where the baby poked and the square counter edge did      
the day her eye swelled  
and her father touched her again.        
       
A woman is a bloody thing.        
Her only son was shot on the street by a stray bullet,        
but the little boy had it lodged in his lung        
when the mother came        
and tried to wipe the death away  
and put pressure on the reality        
that kept pouring out.        
       
And making her alone.        
       
She had dreams of humble living.  
Never thought to make her own,  
so the woman had no provision        
over where the blood came out.        
       
She belonged to a Spaniard        
if only in a sense        
that she was the mother to mestizos  
and didn't know what college  
or by what reason to impose.