blood, oil, sand

show me the tension
with which woven cloth
resists the blade

skin, like a verb, a cloud,
parting quickly to reseal
more slowly, if at all,

and underneath, the music
of our flesh. countries invisible
from space as on the ground

send viruses and antibodies,
the pain we do not feel,
the cure worse than the disease.

history relates the birth
of medicine here, and zeros,
while the inventors of guns

collect our debts. meanwhile,
drunk as wedding guests,
tarring our feet with blood, oil, sand,

our lives become, awake,
the nightmare of the loud knock
in the night, at first convinced

it is our fist on someone else’s door,
but sooner or later it is we
startled awake in our beds

by debt collectors.
death comes for us all,
respecting no convention;

but did we lie awake trembling
in wait with guns against our legs
under the sheets,

or did we sleep and dream
with the ones we love?
that is the question.