Divisions had already been drawn
before you were born —
our blood would be thick
but we were pulled from different rivers,
silt running down our thighs:
I remember the morning I held you,
brushing distance from your brow
and learning your name,
just as you would learn mine —
stumbling over letters with love.
And sometimes we have blood
on our faces, finger marks of the past
we were bound to, sand shifting
beneath our feet: love held
in our hands, in the bathtime curls:
sometimes we taste our roads diverge,
grit between our lips, the silt
we’ve known before —
the pools of change reaching
for our feet yet always failing
to tear us apart.
Written for Prompt Challenge #2 from Free Verse Revolution this week.