I’ve always known the colors of blood
In a field near our house:
A deer with its organs
removed by my father’s
hands—
The purple-red meat, a damp smell like
brown leaves
and bath water
I was the adult: The pouring of it all
out of an open wound
in my brother’s
head—
I knew the brother’s head-blood, shining
and slick on the linoleum
floor of my mother’s
kitchen,
recognized it when, at 17, I saw my own fill a
plastic bag in a high school gymnasium.
To fill another body—
I learned typing as a
lab assistant (b positive),
liquid like a full hot sea—
What we breathe is air—
Blood from bone,
we are made of letters
All of us letters,
a pedigree of small rooms:
Kristin LaFollette is a writer, artist, and photographer and is the author of the chapbook, Body Parts (GFT Press, 2018). She is an Assistant Professor of English at the University of Southern Indiana.
Twitter: @k_lafollette03
Personal Website: kristinlafollette.com