The Gift
A woman is giving
blood and she is
terrified. Whether
this fear lingers
from a pediatrician’s
office or stems
from some fresher
trauma I can not
say. She is not
alone–her husband
grips her wrist, his
fingers lost between
hers. The knuckles
of their hands are
white as fresh
milk spilt across
a tabletop, her heart
beats with the ferocity
of a tire stuck in
mud, the whine of gears
against confinement.
The needle winks
out of its sterile
package and the woman
screams. And screams.
Heads turn to watch
the body convulse
in spasms of
fright, running through
her like frozen
oil–biting but refusing
to stand still. Her husband
twists her neck around
and kisses her. Chests
arch forward off the back
of chairs as her
legs writhe.
Given and
taken, they break
tears of red on the
white cotton covering
her wound, makeup
a mess on her face.
What words pass
between them,
the man standing,
the woman nodding
in a love-laden
daze? What words
could be put to that
intimacy, to describe
his touch against her burning flesh,
her cries in his
ears? How could
anyone outside
of this beautiful
coupling adequately
express the gratitude
of this gift, as well
as the utter
and complete lack
of need?