Your blood is the same as mine.
Red, type O, superstitious.
We both prefer not to spill it but hold it preciously.
Clutched to our chests in fragile vessels.

Your blood is the same as mine.
It flows through our veins and that of our children.
It warms their cheeks and it anointed them when they came mewling into this world.

Your blood is the same as mine.
I read about your losses and I feel them in my bones.
Mother to mother, our blood the same divided only by water.