Plasma: a Love Poem

PLASMA

 

I donate my plasma a lot these days because

it makes me think of you.

You thought it was silly how

I pass out at the sight of blood

And thought I was over-exaggerating until

We dissected a cow heart in biology.  

Holding my arm, you sat by me  

in the hospital and said,

“Just keep your eyes on me.”

My left eye twitched a couple times and

my toes started to tingle,

But your fingers, interlocked with mine,

were transfusing my veins with lightning—

I was grounded.

The underbelly of my skull was static—

A balloon rubbing across my cerebrum.

The worst of it over, I looked to you and said,

“Thank you,” and you, looking up from my arm,

smiled weakly

and fell to the floor.

 

I donate my plasma a lot these days because

it makes me think of you.

I still lose consciousness routinely, but

I feel close to the universe when my

mind turns to stars.

A nomad amongst the constellations,

I don’t wander aimlessly.

The nurses ask me why I keep coming back,

But they don’t understand

I’m still trying to find a place that feels like home,

The way that you did.

I once felt at home in my own body,

But you opened me to a realm outside myself and

I can no longer feel infinite bounded in a nutshell.

 

I donate my plasma a lot these days because

it makes me think of you.

You promised once that you needed me;

It’s human nature to get overly-attached.

I watch my donation leave me now and it is no longer mine.

My body will replace it soon

And I’m numb with indifference.

When I was little I thought blood was blue

until it mixed with the air.

Who am I to say that’s not the case.  

You made me question everything

I thought I knew about myself.

Sometimes I watch the blood as it enters the syringe,  

Imagining I might catch it turning from

Blue raspberry to cherry blast.

Or maybe my blood is made of the strawberry jelly

they use to fill doughnuts,

like the ones you would crave on roadtrips

But that you grew bored of after eating too much

On the drive to my grandparents’ house.

And I know you never liked

my nervous habits, like how I bite my lips

until they bleed, but

I swear sometimes it tastes

almost sweet.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

upnorthdavid

This is crazy good! Thank you for this piece. Love the effective use of repetition

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