Pathology

Every last one
of my last thousand ancestors
survived childhood,
trusted in a mother
and was, in turn, rewarded
with their own child.

Now it is my turn
to set down the next domino
in this record-breaking attempt
at prolonging life.

Watching that blood race up
into that plastic rocket-shaped canister,
you would think that those little haemoglobins
had been on vacation
and were eager to get home.

Blood red, the colour of the sun
when fire is approaching,
and other untrusting thoughts, too:
Are the other children all in school?
Did I snib the lock on the bathroom window?
Has the laboratory technician
through whose fingers this destiny will pass
been up all night with a sick child?