What Runs Through

They put a sticker on my shirt,

small and red, proof I'd done

something that could hurt

or help—my blood sent on.

My kid asked what type I am.

I said I'd write it down.

I realized I never had the plan,

never asked. No one.

I don't know my mother's blood.

I don't know my father's type.

We're strangers in the mud,

related only in the hype.

What runs through my veins

is mystery the dead keep.

I never asked about the chains

that flow so dark and deep.

My child needs to know

just in case something goes wrong.

Just in case I should go.

What part of me lasts long?

I'm holding the sticker—

red like a warning,

and I'm getting sicker

thinking I should've known this morning.