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.