Piece of Damascus

I wear a piece of Damascus on my wrist,
and when Damascus is no longer
I shall remain
a piece of Damascus.

I bear its anger in my womb,
a discarded fetus
of every bastard child
that choked on its breath.

And I shall run in their blood,
twist like the bends
under their flaking skins.
And I shall cry your name
with every shedding piece of their scales.