The needle in the fold of my elbow
siphons its pint slowly,
that thin line of blood similar
to what ties me to my children.
I feed this, too;
life in sanitized, filtered units,
impersonal, cooled for delivery.
I will not name this sacrifice,
my slow bleed appeased
with orange juice and Lorna Doones, but
I have no say over who it sustains,
limited only by type.
Like justice, medicine
must be blind.
I can dream my last unit given
sustains someone who suffered
on Boylston Street
and not the boy-man
planning and planting destruction.
If it is my blood in his veins
carrying piped air to cells
that are in themselves innocent
let it help him live
long enough to answer
for the pain
the way small children wish
for birthday cake
and roller coasters.
***I wonder how the doctors treating this man feel about that, just days after they stitched together his victims? Something like this, I imagine.