To Armenia

Some say tragedy just runs in their blood.
If that’s the case, they usually aren’t so proud.

You are complex.

 Being on your land is as cathartic as it is jarring.
The sorrow from your ground seems to
 seep into my feet and 
shoot out through the top of my head, 
onto your lush mountains and clouds.

I’ve been a mess with you. 
you seem to bring it out of me,
It isn’t your fault.

Your churches and homemade liquor 
are underrated,
like your people,
especially the ghosts selling roses.

You are a rose, spray painted black like the
rusty pipes from the plumbing in your schools.

You are tired. 
You’ve been rinsed
and robbed from your own
biblical territory. 

You’ve been purgatory,
you’ve been a gift, 
you’ve been surreal. 
A diamond in the rough, an endearing wounded child 
who has lived 
and propelled for eons.