O Positive

The bag sat on the counter for three days.

My father set it down without a word

and went to bed. I walked past it. The ways

a person can avoid a thing. I heard

nothing in that silence—just the bag.

When I finally opened it, the chain

was broken. Just the tag. A metal flag:

his name in capitals, the blood type, plain

as a label: O POS. The number

below his name I couldn't make out. Light—

the metal almost cheap-feeling. I stood there, dumber

than I'd planned to be. She'd kept it. Right

up until she didn't.

Twenty years.

No note.