Blood

"Blood will tell,"
the midwives and wise women whisper,
as the woman who labored
now rests in the sweat
and blood
of the birthing-bed.
Blood tells many things:
when you are young,
the blood tells
in the tilt of your nose,
and the shape of your eye,
and the gait of your walk
from whom you descend;
when you age,
the blood tells
in your work and career,
in who you wed,
and in your own offspring.
A doctor of skill
can read the vital essence
like a book:
the blood tells
of your nutrition and hydration,
and whether you have disease
or whether you indulge;
the blood can also reveal
whether you are carrying an embryo
or a parasite,
or beneficial symbiotic life.
A priest of wisdom
also learns from
sanguinary fluid:
the gods who dine
on nectar and ambrosia
have straw-gold ichor
coursing through their veins,
but mere mortals
who eat flesh and fruit
pulse red cruor
from their wounds;
and thus the priests teach us
the imbibing of those fine wines
which transubstantiate gore into glory
and bring everlasting life.
Well-informed women
come to know from experience
how to understand
the claret liquid
which issues from vulva and vein alike,
which is trapped in injuries
beneath the surface of the skin:
whence comes the cleaning of a wound,
the beginning of one's periodic flow,
or the freshest of new bruising,
and whence comes the healing coagulant,
the end of that self-same monthly cycle,
or the last green remnants of bruises aged.
Blood will tell
whether you are ill or well,
whether you are gentle or fell,
whether bound for the heavens
or for hell;
and blood will demonstrate
whether you are picked by fate,
whether you die early or late,
whether you tend to change,
or rather to stagnate;
and blood will show
whether you are friend or foe,
as well as all that you know,
and whether you have
much further to go.