i am waiting for the white to turn red. i watch it, i observe it, i pause and i come to it again. still, it is white, white as silk, virgin married. there is no benefit for the white to turn red, only the relief of my satisfaction. from the spindle to the thread, i unknot the tangles. i spot the red with an optical ruse; i stared at a turquoise drop for too long.
***
you wake up early so you can find a lab where you can stretch out your left arm and make a fist with your hand and dig your pointy nails into your palm. you meet with the needle that draws your blood, only you do not look at it. you feel strange leaving a part of yourself within these walls, and you wonder what will be found in that small vial of you. grief? turbulence? and what will they make of you after they are done probing, examining, mixing, calculating—is there a collective jar where blood samples go to rest? do they merge and become one or do they coalesce like strangers on a crowded bus forced into awkward intimacy?
blood red, cardinal red, deep red in the dark—we are interchangeable.
my blood is in your hands, white as silk, incorruptible.
the pain takes my breath away and carries it to where it can roam freely, without the swollen joints, without the failing hearts.
i have no regrets, but i am always prepared to extricate myself from the knots of the world.