"We use your blood for babies," says the nurse.
“Give them my best,” I say. She nearly smiles.
The opaque bag darkens shadow-red
with my corpuscular tithing. Blood's
darkness always surprises me, suggests how
blood wells up from mineral earth like lava.
The blood-room’s hushed, as if we lying
on padded tables were sacrificial goats
with slit throats and the strong nurses, priests.
A tall woman or short man who used to be
a baby will stroll in flowered Paris one
day, pulsing traces of my blood, which
is O-Negative and CMV-Negative. My heart
never thought to teach me what these words
and letters mean. Do vampires carry all
types of blood, and is that why they’re
so pale and mean and unproductive?
I mean, get out of the casket, Drac,
go to bloodoholic rehab, give back to
the community. Just don’t donate blood,
and stay the hell away from babies...
Finished, I'm offered a cookie and juice.
hans ostrom 2022
