Tristan Robert Lange

Viscosity

I have heard it said that blood is thicker than water,

That a family sticks together, come hell—even hell—

No matter if they succeed or if they ever do falter,

That the viscosity of blood is best for familial swell.

For a while, to me it seemed to be wisdom and truth,

That despite unique varieties, familial bonds prevail.

Still, through a long passage of time I could forsooth

That blood’s viscosity changes, grows hard—stale—

And the crusted mountain scab takes time to heal.

If it ever really does heal for, sometimes, its torn—

Ripped off prematurely by fingers itching a feel—

Where bacteria enters and the infection’s born.

Having nearly died, I sought out a fresh supply

Of my blood—mixed in a well of the blackest ink—

To transfuse through the heart—to never deny—

And stretch the viscosity to its finest, fluid brink.

Since then, I do think, that I have found my place,

Viscous enough to heal wounds and to know to forgive,

But, now my family includes many in a poetic space,

Where the ink will flow free and enter hearts to live.