The Code

They asked me and I didn't know,

and that seemed like something I should show

I understood—the basic code,

the letters that would tell them where I owed

my loyalty, my type, my categorization.

O negative? Or something else?

I was watching my own blood tell

its story in a vial, watching

the nurse write down the answer, catching

sight of myself reduced to letters.

I've lived in this body for years,

through all the doubts and fears,

and never once bothered to ask

what type I was, never had to unmask

the answer, never needed to know.

But now I know.

Now it's written on a form, and I can show

anyone who asks: O negative.

The letters that are supposed to give

me some understanding of myself.

I hold the knowledge like a shelf

I didn't build, understanding

that my blood is now branding

me, marking me, making me fit

into a category—just a bit

of information that doesn't explain

anything at all.