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B-positive, O-negative
by Jerry Hicks

These days
containers sealed so well–
tight as old tombs.
Jabbed skin to bone
slicing plastic,
my thumb doesn't bleed
at first, just throbs,
marrow trembling.

Stupid! glooms my esteem,
and glaring at the puncture
expectantly for blood
an image forms:

You, Sylvia–
warm essence gushing
to chilly kitchen tile–
thumb tip nearly severed
(like your future).
But before applying first aid
you've conceived "Cut,"
for tout le monde to admire.

What masterpiece
arrived as you danced in the oven
in '63 at thirty-one?
I wonder,
blood now oozing
nicely from my puncture
as I hurriedly scribble these lines.


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