When she asks which arm, I point
          to my right, but she takes my left, turns it
back and forth in the light, tells me I have
 
          many strong veins, so that’s where
she sticks me. I clench both fists
          even though I only have to tighten one,
and to take my mind off the needle
 
          she asks me what I do, so I tell her poetry,
and she says she loves poetry, her bleach-tipped
          hair blending with the fluorescent light
 
behind her head. She asks me to recite
          something, anything, to pass the blood time,
and she’s on the second vial at this point,
          but I barely make it to the third stanza
 
of “Ode to a Nightingale” before forgetting
          the rest, so I say sorry. She asks if
she can recite something she wrote, her eyes closing
 
          as she begins, which makes me nervous
for several reasons, and then she goes
          and goes on at a lightening pace, something
and something about love and it not working
 
          out, it’s beautiful, and we are on the fourth vial
now, one of her hands on the half-full
          crimson tube and the other waving in the air,
 
and I have never felt so much pain and pleasure
          at the same time, listening to her pummel out
her story of falling into and out of love,
          and when she finishes speaking her poem
 
into the air and all is silent again, I want to clap;
          but one of my arms still has a needle inside it,
and the other is still clenched in a cold sweat.