Away, avast.
We stand on the sidelines to watch.
We fight in the battle, too.
But we split apart, save ourselves
with a tourniquet of paper.

You, the stream, that threads through their fingers.

The darkness in your eyes
It bleeds into the cloth
That wraps the arrow wound.
They struck you with a coward’s weapon.
They’re afraid.

You, the breath and word, invisible behind your mask.

You, the poet, the maker of your own being.
Their swords may be your pen.
You write histories on their blades so they line the soil with truth
For what is purer than our blood when it mixes with the rain
That washes us away?