Plasma Center. Dreading it.
She snaps the strap. Vein bulges
on my inner arm. a stainless-steel mosquito
hovers, plunges, and pierces.
I watch—woozy—as scarlet fluid
fills tube and bag. My heart skips,
pumps a little faster—six quarts of blood,
scalp to toes, three times a minute,
thousands of round trips daily . . .
O2 in
CO2 out
cell by cell
72 years
and counting.
🙦🙤
At the rail a pinch of bread
is placed in my open palms.
I dip it into the cup as she says
“For this is the blood of the new covenant . . .”
I chew, savoring His élan vital—dyeing
red cells purple, purging, purifying—
His blood, transfuses . . .
“shed for many . . .”
20 centuries
and counting.