Blood Matters

I wish I weren’t told lies
about the blood flowing
from one area of the body
to the other, from feet
to head and back again
through tubes and channels,
river-running through
until it tapers off into the flesh,
which then won’t be able
to stay put and will have to move,
as when the blood reaches the tips
of the fingers the fingers are moved
to write, the toes, when blood-pumped,
pump and jaunt down the street
with their neatly rowed companions
down there,
and ever, ever do we need
blood for the brain,
for the gray steak, unless it’s lined
with blue and red and purple
is inert, is nothing but a gray,
dusty gray weight
which, with slow decay
will grow lighter and lighter
until it’s gray smoke and ash--
I feel my blood staying
in one place like a weight
around my heart, the space
around my heart is deadweight
carried by children in the field
away from mother
trying to prove their strength
to one another
but it’s not going anywhere,
like a cement block
pushed along by the river
but it’s not going anywhere,
the river shivers against it,
the stone slowly crumbles,
but it doesn’t roll and tumble
down the mucky mat,
I feel like that,
and don’t know whether
I’m supposed to take a blood-
thinner, or just wait it out,
wait for the mother to shout
to her children in the field
Kids it’s time for dinner,
don’t worry about the stone
out there, wait for daddy to come
with the hammer, he’ll bust it
in bits each of you can lift,
wait for the water to erode,
like a dream is eroded by routine,
the stone and the stone’s stony-
heavy, unmoving, burdensome joy.