OBSERVATION OF BLOOD

By Yucheng Tao

Today, the museum closes its doors early,

waiting;

how much of the night’s bleakness

seeps into it, enjoying the dark corridors.

The Indian tents with pointed frames,

like spears of bone, stand pierced

in the empty lobby, lonely,

waiting;

how the winter wind cuts through it.

As the cold artifacts of the museum

catch the outside glow,

the carnivalesque slaughter brings

laughter to civilization.

Denver’s rain is absent and dry,

the natives of the Arapaho

meditate on the sacred mountain

when the invaders come.

I watch how blood spreads—

past and present—and death favors

their flesh, buried under black moonlight

by fire and sword.

Left with sword marks,

they dye the river bend with blood,

winding like red silk;

now it leaves collections

lying in the museum of darkness.

Their bones cannot be read,

as their residues are covered

under the ash of death.

Inside or out, there is no sweetness—

only the salty taste of blood.

The truth sinks and vanishes;

as for the sleeping city folks,

the moon is clear tonight.

#DarkPoetsClub