I've Tasted My Blood

If this brain’s over-tempered

consider that the fire was want

and the hammers were fists.

I’ve tasted my blood too much

to love what I was born to.

But my mother’s look

was a field of brown oats, soft-bearded;

her voice rain and air rich with lilacs:

and I loved her too much to like

how she dragged her days like a sled over gravel.

Playmates? I remember where their skulls roll!

One died hungry, gnawing grey perch-planks;

one fell, and landed so hard he splashed;

and many and many

come up atom by atom

in the worm-casts of Europe.

My deep prayer a curse.

My deep prayer the promise that this won’t be.

My deep prayer my cunning,

my love, my anger,

and often even my forgiveness

that this won’t be and be.

I’ve tasted my blood too much

to abide what I was born to.