upon learning presidents of the united states travel with bags of their blood type at all times

don't tell me you are afraid. don't tell me 
we have buried our kings in the ocean. 
outside my apartment 
an angel was drive-by shot.
turned into a flock of mice.
they put a chalk halo around his body.
for weeks it remained until the first
summer downpour said, "you are emptied."
a ghost does not need blood. 
i do not live in a country.
there is no such thing. instead, i live
inside a series of broken promises.
the promises we make to the soil.
to our bodies. to the signs that mark 
state lines. i play jump rope with 
a dead boy. he says his blood lives
in the asphalt. he says when the weeds grow
they know his language. flourish
when his favorite song plays from the window
of a car going way too fast. 
i do not want my blood 
to ever go inside a man who puppets an empire
or else an empire who puppets a man.  
feed me to the spirits if you must.
let the tree drink me. draw a halo.
give the boy my river. let him walk again
with his hands in his pocket
& his mouth full of rain.