I was made of red rivers that snaked through my bones.
Inside of me, the Tigris burst—where the blood ended
and the boy began, I could not tell. I kissed the scarlet.

Salt cedars bloomed out of sand, their shadows a cradle
for Cain. At night, the herons howled. Then, two sans ran
along the rivershore. Look at me, one said. Then, the other.

One day, a mist rose up from the river. Inside it, a scream:
its cold veil brushed against my face. I traced the atmosphere
for ravens or any sign of death. I ran through swirls of gray.

I followed tracks in the soot, each print like a freckle
on my own body—a memorized nearness. His body, at first,
hidden by leaves. Where the blood ended and the boy began,

I could not tell. There, Cain’s footsteps pointed east of Eden.
My eyes traced the lines. Inside of me, the Tigris burst.
It’s my fault, I cried. I brought death into the world.

A mother’s den ransacked—every cub eaten alive.
I pressed my fists into silt, my own mark on the earth.
His blood, a remnant. I made my bed the scarlet.