Red Cross

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At the blood donor clinic, we exchanged
the warm smiles of those who know their bodies
are good and clean and pulsing. Instead of killing
time with word games on a white board –composed
and hung up so we‘d forget our brief red threads, unraveling--
you took measure of the sinew in my forearm,
watched my hand spool empty air, encouraging
the blood machine that rocked like lovers
we would become. So like the treadle
on Beauty's spinning wheel.

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