"phlebotomy" poems
I. I know which veins are the safest for needle entry; which areas will hurt, and at which angle the needle should be inserted. And I know, too, that once the needle is in, removing blood from the human body is nearly effortless. I explained all of this to you once. In the trunk of my car, there is enough equipment to remove all of the blood from my body.
II. It's storming outside. Flashes of lightning illuminate my bedroom. We talked about storms often. You asked me if I was scared.
III. The sound of your laugh runs through my head louder than thunder. I remember when I used to imagine what it would sound like. Now it plays on repeat. My favorite song.
IV. Some mornings I wake up in a panic. I dream in your language.
V. The first time you told me you loved me was the only time I had ever been surprised to hear anyone say it. I can't describe what that felt like, and I don't know if I will feel it again. Sometimes I think that was the last thing I had left to feel for the first time.
VI.
VII. You are gone.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
You can't safely have a cigarette outside of the bus terminal
without a couple of folk asking for one.
You can't safely have a cigarette in general.
But, if five of them have to last you a night and a sunrise,
you don't really mind turning down a few nameless hands.
Some of the bus drivers like to talk about football, weather;
others complain about management or the patrons;
a few don't say much at all, avoiding sympathy.
They're probably the smart ones.
They don't want to learn the sad stories in between stops.
I usually like to just sit in the back and ride out the best bumps.
The handrails jiggle and crash with every pothole.
-
The men who work at the metal scrap yard
usually get on in front of Debbie's Diner on 22nd street.
Bundled up for warmth and firm of face, they only speak to each other.
Small talk about who almost missed the bus, broken crane joints,
and who moved the most barrels of copper piping fill the blocks.
They tend to pick on the guy who runs the aluminum can crusher;
big guy, they call him "Boose" and he couldn't be much older than I am.
His hands and lips are dry and cracked from exposure,
but his face still shows ember of teenage years, though jilted.
There is a bar that serves three-dollar chili across the street, spicy.
The workers go there when they miss the first bus, have a beer,
down a bowl of boiling chili, and catch the return bus in better moods.
-
The railroads on Brush College road tend to hold up traffic.
The ADM plant doesn't really mind if a few twenty-something mothers
are late to their practical nursing and phlebotomy classes,
but they voice their complaints out of a cracked window to the side
of a ten story soybean silo nonetheless; steaming ears and all.
I stare at the graffiti on the laggard train cars, each unique
in color, quality, style, and message; the industrial Louvre.
These waits sometimes last a half hour or more.
In the days before Pell grant rewards come in,
when students still feel like they're working toward tangible cash,
the seats are all packed with heavy breathers.
The air becomes thick with community college carbon coughs.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
I walk into a hospital and the hospital is a graveyard. A doctor stands with his back to me, performing a ballet autopsy on a bluish barbarian. A single salty droplet falls from the bluish barbarian's head and there is a tremor in his hand. "He is alive" I whisper. "Stop doctor, stop," I say but the doctor doesn't listen. I keep shouting louder and louder until I am making a huge racket. A skeleton nurse shushes me. I scream and the doctor jerks, his graceful movements broken. He turns to me and his glacial eyes take over my mind, stripping away my layers until I am barren, exposed. He speaks but his voice is a wolf's voice. A wolf's voice isn't like a human voice, it is ******* harsh. "Look what you've done" he growls. "Now it's impure. It's weak." I watch as the bluish barbarian becomes dozens of tiny screaming beetles. Then he is dust and the graveyard is an urban labyrinth. "You stupid thing," says the doctor but the doctor is now an ant. I laugh and walk into the labyrinth but the doctor-ant follows me. "Shut up" I say and I laugh and I cough and I walk into the phlebotomy lab and break my skull on a glove. "I told you" says the ant and it walks away and I cry.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 11:56 AM UTC
Blood tests are something I could do without
But they are alas a necessary evil
And though it’s really not a thing to shout about
They haven’t so far (in my case) proved lethal.
However it was with a deal of trepidation
That I presented myself at phlebotomy today.
The result did not match up to my anticipation;
The perfect vein was quickly pierced I’m glad to say.
It did, at least, give some sense of direction
To medical support for my ongoing treatment
Avoiding, to my great relief, any infection
Or disconcerting prospect of impeachment.
While the symptoms are improved by the procedure,
The condition, sad to say, is not remitted,
And the problem, even sadder, gets no easier,
While the health practitioners remain committed
To additional probing examination,
And are calling me for further tests next week,
Despite the blood flow’s vast immoderation
That required a lot of plugging of the leak.
When they put me into my final casket
And thus dispose my bones and body once for all
I can imagine someone there will ask it:
“We wonder why his body seems so awfully pale.”
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
Seize my strength
For the first
Seize my worth
For the hundredth
Why must I crave
What I despise
Why must you hate
What you realize
A phlebotomy is always at risk
You mustn't always fight my kiss
Timidness is not wisdom
The wise approach with openness
Caution is not wisdom
The wise remain brave, unmoved by fear
Entire and entirely
You are an atmosphere
Enveloping my mind
You are my atmosphere
Entire and entirely
No escape
I am free
Why do you still seep into me?
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 1:39 AM UTC