There are people in teams extracting
Vast tracts of blood industriously.
As I am not keen on small-talk
And self-loathing is not a sufficient
Reason to abdicate,
I join the queue nervously.
The nurses always struggle
To find a worthy vein in my forearm
For allogeneic purposes.
It’s the only time I’m marked ‘A positive’.
There is someone far worse off than me, it’s in the brochure,
And it feels good for just one moment
To contribute with a simple gesture;
Pinpricked thumb and veneopuncture.
Yet there are no contraptions
The ingenuity within medicine
And all of mankind’s actions combined
To extract you so effectively.
I would have the plastic bag
Filled with your memory-silk
And deoxyribonucleic acid,
The volume the same as a pint of old milk.
I have this obligation to carry you around,
Not in a sack or urn or keepsake box,
But in my bones and arteries.
I scratch myself but it will not flood,
I lose my head but you are not expunged,
There are no donors, wherever I roam;
So I lay back, dark offering drained,
Dunked a biscuit, and drove home in the rain.