The Blood Essay
Lying as survival for gay blood donations
Before my blood jetted into the clear tubing, exiting at body temperature, fogging up the inside of the plastic; before the phlebotomist whipped out his iodine to sterilize my arm, before he fished for a vein, before I lied during the screening, before I knew blood as warning, weak points, and damage, before the Orlando shooting, before sleeping with him, telling Mom I slept with a girl, before I knew my blood as the universal donor, I knew my blood as a taker of sorts, starting with the torsions.
The doctor says, Even though you don’t have anything down there, while strapping on a rubber glove for the palpitate and cough, we have to check. You’re ten at your scheduled physical and you have no clue what he’s talking about.
We’ll be outside, Mom says, Just talking. She bites into ‘talking’ like it’s an animal she just caught. When they leave the room there’s an ocean sound with the door shuts — no, it’s the sound when an ear sits close to a seashell — until the slow ringing comes back to real time, as you hear Mom’s voice through the door. What you remember piecing together;
He —
He — didn’t — no
He — Did — Not — Know —
