Blood ghazal When I first moved to France, pride and hope in my blood,
 I swore I would pluck up the courage to give blood. But born at the end of the mad-cow disease years
 I have been blacklisted – France does not want my blood. I regret that I might have backed out anyway:
 as my friends will tell you, I am not good with blood. The last time that a nurse drew my blood out of me
 for testing, I fainted. Oh, that tube of my blood. From me it had just come, in me it had just been:
 I knew in a moment why some baulk at their blood. It was different each month; it was meant to flow then,
 I was told, and I would be intrigued by my blood. When it crept from a wound, from a fault, my mistake,
 was when I felt guilty, mocked and blamed by my blood. I never discovered my blood type – I want to;
 it would calm me to know that bit more of my blood. I have to remember, my blood is no stranger:
 in my own bone garden blossomed flowers of blood. The thing is that mainly, they grow inside only
 and I lose my technique catching petals of blood.