A certain sequence occurred today,
a circumstance arose,
to see my own blood.
This was a significant day -
it was not the everyday
kind of blood:
the type people see on themselves,
oftentimes,
as a result
of a scrape
on a knuckle,
or a scratch
from a thorn -
the blood
just below
the surface.
I watched,
nonplussed: the blood
inside
myself…
pump to the surface pump pump,
by the inner organ,
to every vital recipient.
This was the blood we do not see,
or rarely see,
if only through stories
told on TV
or a movie screen;
the blood we hope not to see,
as it indicates a closer
proximity to peril.
I was inadvertently
opened
by a very small,
deep
incision,
which produced this occasion
for me to see my own blood,
deep down dark,
red-near-purple,
and an instance to reflect.
As it was when it happened my frame
of mind quickly
grew astute,
and my response to cinch the wound
was swift.
Now with the barrier repaired
between the perpetual
inner circulation
and the anterior world,
I have the calm
once again
of my longevity
intact,
and a reassurance that
the wellspring of life
is within me,
receding to the interior
once again
where it silently
facilitates each fundamental,
momentous,
robust
day.
