Then think of it. Blood won’t stay
Long in a fridge, and not long
In its own home flesh. It dies,
Red and white, in a few days.
Your own blood is not the same
As your own blood last week, much
Less the same blood as your kin’s.
But if it could be, could flow
From vein to vein, life to life,
Not just as a stop-gap flown
In on ice, but as a stream
Through the long years, braids, a thread,
Not just of bits of core code,
But the pure blood of life, spilt
Birth to birth, new blood mixed in,
To fill up all the new flesh,
But the old blood still there, too.
Now that would be a wave, that
Would be a true link for you,
But it’s not. You’re all new blood,
And what comes down through you is
Not once from the same stream twice.
What’s left of all the blood lost?
What life wastes plus what life’s left
Adds up to what life ate, which
Was life, in your case, which made
Fresh blood. Your blood’s food less waste,
Part grass much more than part kin,
More than part your lost self, passed.
