This is my blood of the new covenant,
poured out with the phase of the moon.
Divine promises or Divine Providence,
this contract is binding.
How will I survive, to rise
for muster every morning?
A crimson river consecrates me,
declares me strong enough - and beautiful.
I surge out of bed and into life,
which at the moment means coffee and toast.
But which very soon
means the next Antietam
- a glittering field of washing machines
and broken promises I should have forgotten.
My comfort is to know my blood was already spilled,
and so despite the pain, I cannot die today.
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