I keep it under a cardigan sleeve
this throb knot, purple roadblock,
humming through my boring excuse
when I’m asked about the family thing.
Older now than when my dad had me,
I shy from this sort of grown-up talk –
maintain a long-distance, avoid loose
socks on a plane, secretly planning
my panic for when a close one conceives
to start the wind of my nine-month clock
out of their lives, a pitied recluse,
the uncle who only gets a ring
because he’s alone on Christmas Eve.
I try not to think of the vein that’s caught
in my elbow’s shrinking noose,
desperate to reach a hand that inks
out names on a family tree.
This, it warns, is how to stop
a bloodline – not a cannula’s botched abuse
or a compression sock’s tight cling –
but stubbornly choosing to believe
staying still will unravel a clot.

Luke Morgan’s newest collection is Blood Atlas (Arlen House, 2025). He is the 2025 Winner of the O’Shaughnessy Award