Blood Catalog

Waiting for a pint-weight to tip,
I watch my blood being siphoned off
into a plastic bag. I have also seen it
drop twisting into toilets or stagger
from safety razor cuts
into the bath water. I have felt
it crawl in my hair -- thick,
and salty and warm. I have seen
it gush from between my legs
as I knelt, wracked,
as my daughter was born. I've
heard about it after my accident
which I do not remember. All this, more,
as if from a distance. But
when my son opened his mouth
spilling candy red from his
lips, I was Mary before
the cross; the mother of
the executed man, the hemophiliac,
the cancer patient; I was the older
mother of the old man. My blood
-- let off, seeped
out, harvested, licked, lost,
and washed away -- had less effect.
And now that I think of it,
I've always hidden as much of it
from my mother as I could. And now
that I've grown up, I know why.

Copyright Louise Robertson