Wednesday, September 05, 2012

Dear Life

I ran across an old poem today:

Dear Life

When I was eight,
my mother's uterus wrung
itself out in a burst
of grief and a shower
of blood.
They lifted her away
and left me
with the one-inch sibling
who never was:
Laurel or Ronald, who lived
only in my diary.

Today, a nurse apologizes
for hurting me as she thumps
my arm and pulls her needle
in and out, drilling
for blood.
She thinks my veins are hidden,
but I have reduced them
to capillaries.
I will yield nothing
from my body before its time.


crystal said...

Sad poem. Evicative though.

Susan said...

Hi Crystal. Old poem. But they still have trouble tapping into my veins.

Bridgett said...

*sob* That is quite evocative.