Phlebotomy

 

 

 

Phlebotomy

She thanks me for my “great veins”
like tree roots in shallow soil
making her job easy. I thank her
for surefire aim, a poke almost painless.
Together we watch purple seawater
spurt-spurt into vials with labels slapped,
my birthdate verified, initialed,
my true identity in liquid and digit.

A sailor’s cats-paw of tiny waves
surround the veins, gusts of age
rippling the skin. I used to be smooth,
look decent in a mirror. I’d open jars.
I built entire houses board by board,
nail by nail.

Do purple vials carry memory?
No, child that’s your job. Dig no grave,
carve no tombstone. I’ll be ash
scattered on mountainside. Breeze will blow.
And then, child, will you please—
 
Build a small sailboat with the skills I taught.
Steer over seawater.
I’ll come to you in cats-paw.
Feel the warm breath of my love.

…..

First published in Moss Piglet. Thank you editor John Bloner.
The photo is of my left arm.