sanguina
for idris, who asked for the Silmarillion and Frankish kings.

in this world we carp
on and on and in, about
the ethics of genetics--
& two and a half
dimensions away, they're still fighting wars
for the purity of blood.

your blood is as blue as mine;
that is to say we're both quite red
in the face, once
we're done wasting our breath
arguing the merits & not
of twisting helixes and creating
that perfect immortalized generation;

Fëanor had seven lovely sons, didn't he,
and look where that got him;
the Capetian kings lived only
because their queens
had the good fortune to bear
life and life, a palace-full of sons
to squander away
their hard-kept blood and breeding.

when it comes down to it, on the battlefield
& in the darkness of a lover's bedroom,
your blood is as dark as mine--
fate may cleave
your butterfly veins
as easily as they do mine.