Blood and Ash
But look here, I turned my head
and discovered the Denver Museum
waiting,
a ghost that stood out in my sight,
telling me that their land was spring—
grass above flowers.
Today, they lay in an Indian exhibition,
silent；
Their faces were a sentence:
to strip them of survival
was as simple as pulling out corn.
The natives of the Arapaho
like me, watched how blood spread,
crossing
from the past into the present,
toward some corner of the world
where an unjust war burned,
buried under black moonlight
by fire.
Their bones could not be read,
as their remains were covered
under the ash of death,
silent,
floating like a ghost.
Denver’s rain is absent,
but rocks are red, like their blood.
The people of the city forget
as quickly as fish,
and sleep as deeply as rocks.
Yucheng Tao is a Chinese poet whose work has appeared in White Wall Review (Canada), Wild Court (King’s College London), Strange Horizons, NonBinary Review, Recours au Poème, and he is forthcoming in I-70 Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Poésie Première, and Arpa Poésie (2026). He received an honorary award from the Dark Poet Club, and his chapbook is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.