Donation
by Ivy Chen
At the blood drive clenching my fist and waiting for it to be over.
Nurse rips the red out of me, soaking clean through her gloves. Said
what I would give to be better again. The day before walking the
length of a strange city, spiraling in and then back out again. Tourists
choking the long veins of streets and teenagers smoking weed in
the nerve system of the park, cyclists weaving between skin
and muscle, everything a body all the time. I stood outside it then,
wanted to imagine myself fixable. Saw the poster and made it my
penance. Said I would give myself to something greater. Said
I live on this street, I weigh this much. Is it true these cells will last
forever? The nurse taps my shoulder. It’s done. Suddenly light-headed.
Said funny, I didn’t think I would ever feel this way again.