Summer 1994 • Vol. XVI No. 3 Poetry |

Blood Test

As the needle goes into my arm I think of the moment we first got into bed together: your body prone along mine, your shaved head against my ribs. I kiss the stubble, think how your anger is the only thing you have left as your body fails, blood cell by blood cell. The nurse fingers my pulse, asks if I have nightsweats, any unhealed marks on my body and when I say no, I hear your question as you reach for the extra-strong condoms on the table. You hover over me, I feel your swelling between my thighs, you could tear my inner membranes, expose my blood to your own and when I say no, you want me to say it again and again, your eyes closing as you fling your seed across my body until I hear the nurse say she's going to take the needle out of my arm, straight out of me. She's quick to place the roundof cotton over the opening and I think of the coin placed over the eyes of the dead. I see the white drops of your sperm on my stomach, watch as your eyes open and you see that I want it off

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