Wynne Morrison,
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA

Poet’s statement: This poem ponders how giving blood is an almost religious experience—connecting with others, giving a part of oneself, a sacrament or sacrifice in stations like the stages of the cross.

 

Blood of my blood First station—awkward screening questions. Where have you lived? Who slept with? What other sins? Tattoos? Drugs? Dialysis?The inquisitor’s eyes probe after every question, trying to sound my soul. Second station—my drop of blood sinks slowly, I am found worthy.Third station—I show a man my best vein. His needle pierces my skin, catching at the old scars, proof of my experience.He’s good. The cabernet rush comes quickly. The bag slowly swells, like an engorged tick, ready to burst.I wait, pumping my fist, and try to smile, ignore the metal in my arm, imagine sending warmth and hope to a strangerwho will receive a part of me. Fourth station— a nurse touches my arm and leads me to my sacrament of juice and cookies.

Photography by Ollie Crafoord

 

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WYNNE MORRISON, MD, MBE, is a physician practicing pediatric critical care and palliative care at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia and the University of Pennsylvania.

 

Highlighted in Frontispiece Summer 2012 – Volume 4, Issue 3

Summer 2012   |  Sections  |  Poetry