A syrup of blood
with fleshy clots of strawberry.
Brown bread
sugar smudged in red,
by a domesticated
butter knife;
‘tis the grandson of a weapon.
Maternal instincts raised
pitchforks —
forks to champagne glasses
“Raise a toast…!” to the war veterans
now buried at Heroes Acre.
Liberation’s new dawn is a party
that domesticated us into these pathetic
utensils so that we can consume that syrup of Jam
without the thought of blood.
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