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"no spillage"
"No Spillage"
The ground has drunk enough
to fill a century’s lungs— scarlet
poured from opposite mouths,
each shout leaving splinters
to root in the marrow of soil.
Iron rusts into the seams,
bone dust threads the furrows;
rain comes heavy with memory,
pressing the old quarrels
deeper than the reach of any plough.
Still, I close my palms
over what has not yet fallen,
cup the future as if it were water
and carry it steady.
I walk the fault-lines
without tipping their weight,
and in the hiatus
between heartbeat and shudder,
I do not spill.
.
