These gods

the gods are not kind,
their fingers in each file of crawling shadows.
they take the salt from the woman, the iron
from the man, they form the corrosion, the rust.
with manacles, they threaten the sun, place the'
whip of sea spite on the shores of our backs.
who would have thought that the sky will
blacken our hearths? who would have known
that the desert will beg for thirst in the mirage
of rain? the gods are not fair to us.
their teeth sink new grooves into the blush
of trauma. their kisses are wet with other
people's blood. who will save us in the morning?
who will save us in the night?

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