My blood has contained the fragile arms of snow flakes.

My blood has melted into the Red Sea

slid down the gullet of dairy  cows laying down before

a storm

washed the rocket-ship bed sheets

of my brother.

My blood has flooded main street

in a bursting July lightning storm

that cracks the sky like a speckled egg

boiled to steep British breakfast tea

and escaped from the kettle in pearls.

My blood has baked peanut-butter brownies

at two a. m.

coiled in the bellies of water balloons

washed the crumpled paper hands of the priest

before communion– pouring from the distracted

pitcher of the bell acolyte.

I am nothing more than red food coloring

and milk.

My hips and my wrists sleet and rain like martyr throats

and thorn bush thumbs.

My blood has cascaded in waterfalls in the Amazon

and waited stagnant in the brewing

Pine Barrens.

When I bleed I hail, I drizzle, I flurry, I rain

I wash baby hair and apostle feet.

I have already been an ocean– it is not much

to be a girl who drenches herself

in July rain and cracks her skin

like speckled eggs.