by Ryan Wong
we crawled before we learned to march,
the prints of our hands and knees a path
drawn
erased
written
burned
spoken
silenced
& carved into the skin with cold flint.
we cradled our palms before we learned
to curl them into fists;
swallowing the anger like spit,
heads face-down through the burning in our throats.
[the blood on our knuckles is wine—
mulled, pooling under the alleyway
since winter came & left.
here lies the color of the earth.
i saw it drain from their eyes.]
we kneeled before we learned to stand on glass,
the dye seeping into our veins;
how, then,
are we to walk silently on broken feet,
leaving behind pink footprints with each step?
[the heart is poisoned & the candles are wax.
hold the prism to your chest & whisper;
may the light of your pulse banish their wrath.]
nothing is different:
we will always bleed pink.
