"AB Negative
"
The prick of the needle is electric, not like a pinch
not like she said it'd be. The dizzy feeling hits
and white walls blur; the nurse's conversation
stops making sense. I start to wonder
what other destinations my blood has found.
Mosquitoes have sucked their share, mostly
in the humid nights of my childhood. Sidewalks
have been well-slicked, from falls and scrapes, and the one
along Riverside must still be scabbed along the edge,
from the summer we lived there, when the glass
from your dollar-store vase smashed against my calf.
The scar along my eyebrow, the one I've made up
hundreds of excuses for, bled buckets the night
I got drunk in Oxford, and stumbled unromantically
into a wall. All that blood, dried up now, dea--
Perhaps this batch will last longer. The nurse
draws the needle out, plugs the tiny hole with gauze.
How many mosquito lifetimes do they store it for,
and are there spaces beyond this plastic I.V. bag
where mine is still alive? This is my first deposit
into the nation's blood banks, but then of course,
there's the first time we kissed to consider.
I'd been gnawing my cheek all night,
and when we finally pressed our lips together,
you said there was a copper taste. Surely then,
a drop or two must have traveled down
your throat, settled in some small cavern
inside you. I'd like to think that's true. I pinch
my eyes shut, imagine the hum of your organs
warming that secret pool, and smile at knowing
that as long as your veins keep their flow
you'll never get rid of me, not completely.
© 2005 Graeme Mullin
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