Where Is It In Me? I seek the blood that flowed from the Aged ones; blood thick and sticky with the ancient dust pounded up by their gypsy feet. Father has that blazing blood. It coats and seals like scalding wax dripping from his mother’s Bohemian Christmas candles. It is a wild blood. It throbbed through his body when seven miracles were conceived, and flushed his worn face when seven miracles were born. It is the slipshod blood that splattered across table saw and plywood. Mother’s needle and thread flew to preserve what hadn’t leaked from the yawning wound. Even Satan has lurked in his blood. He tainted it with dirty palms. His fingers crusted it around father’s temples, teeth, and trousers while ambulance sirens and mother wailed for him. Yet, father still commands the beat of that hurdling blood. It lingers in his tired eyes. It pulses to warm his cold nose, and surges through dancing feet and clapping hands.