I dip my finger in its redness –
a little wild honey for you
& a little for me,
beloved.

Each letter bears
             the unmistakable scent,
the iron perfume,
the dreams of lung,
vein & the battlefield.

At the window,
trembling,
befriending trees & cats with my eyes,
whispering at the fences & the fennel.

I trace my finger on the page
& it leaves red marks:
             cursive, shaped like infant breath;
bold letters, a jumble of bones,
a shotgun shell & a slap of ink.

Blood poetry,
               the poetry of unease.

Omar Musa