The Wound of Hate - for the president elect



The Wound of Hate


Your smile hurts,
so does your voice
and the sea
in which you bathe,
your ashes and your body.

The mourning seed
I feed with fire
that is my currency,
this long, amorous nightmare.

And, how to tell,
                                    tell you
that I have closed eyes
if at the end of eyes, I keep
the almond and the broken election.

How do I keep quiet
when there are halved doves
on fields and fields of blood.

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