A Crowd of Strangers

I could show you pictures
of my arm, the shiny stainless steel needle
carefully slipped into a vein,
the rich burgundy liquid flowing
in a thin line down and out of sight.

Or perhaps I could show you pictures
of the bags, full of deep red life
and stacked up like dead fish
at the end of the counter,
each one marked with bar codes and labels
as they cool, separated from their hearts.

Everyone is so efficient. Polite. Cool.
Another day at the office.
Ask the questions. Drain the blood.
Next up.
Repeat.
Repeat again.

I should show you. I’ve spent my life giving
blood. Gallons of the stuff, one pint at a time,
amazed that now, forty-two years later,
I have given far more than I have,
and am no worse for wear,
and somewhere out there my blood lives
in someone else, in a small crowd of strangers,
recreating itself into something, someone,
new.

About this poem

I gave blood this morning. I know the science, but even after giving since I was 18, it still seems like a miracle to me.

Tom