The phlebotomist must like the taste
of my blood, even if I can no longer hold
the cotton ball while she reaches for a roll
of co-bind. She takes so much out of me
to save for later, enough to stock a pantry,
feed an army. It’s a wonder I can stand
and pull up my sleeves after she fills her vials.
I must be virile. Spouting in the vacuum
of her tube, even if I avert my eyes, searching
for distraction, before her needle dives.
There are no paintings in her bedroom, only
another chair with wings, her calendar. Photos.
I must remind her of her firstborn
in the woods, her howling second birth.