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
he anticipated
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.
Susan Daniels Poetry 
Very moving piece Susan…got me to my core!
Thanks, Nirvani!
Like this observation very much. Partucularly the way you bring lineage and inncocence into the equation.
Bart, thank you. I was trying to figure out how one could tell cells how to behave. We can’t. They are innocent of our actions, ideals, or preferences. What moves us is deeper, and in some cases, much darker.
‘Tis just as well medicine is blind, methinks ~ great poem Susan 🙂 xx
Thanks, Polly. I guess it is a good thing. Perhaps they can see it as keeping him alive to answer for what he did, perhaps. Glad I am not a doctor in Boston today.
i adore your passion. we are so similar.
Georgia–thank you! I think we are, in a lot of ways.
This is a fantastic poem! It gave me goosebumps 😉
Oh, thank you. Just a thought I had that bloomed into this.
I was thinking along similar lines watching the news earlier… must be difficult to stay objective I’m guessing. Really nice way of putting the issues front and centre in this poem Susan.
Holly, thank you. Talk about dark… Does not get much darker that that.
wow! you handled this incredibly well. “Like justice, medicine must be blind” yes!
Oh, thank you so much! That is a question I have not had to answer, but I think this is how I would deal with it.
Really love how you explore these topics in such an artistic way!
Thank you very much.
Thank you for donating. I used to do so regularly until they shut me down for a mitral valve issue. It will be put to good use.
Thanks, Nelle.
I love this moving poem, Susan. Your imagery is magic and heart ache and comfort at once. Thank you for such a thought provoking reflection.
Thanks, Brandy.
Well, that’s hard to consider, but a good tough question. Tough questions are the best. I would give my blood to him, if only because someone was responsible for making him, and perhaps they still love him even though they are shocked by him, perhaps they are parents who have never done a wrong thing in their life and all they do is love their son, even though he is a crappy little confused monster. I don’t know. I would save him if I could, because he was once a child, and when he was a child, he was hopefully innocent. And then something happened, and something else happened, and then it kept happening, and then he hurt children, and that’s when he wasn’t a child anymore, that’s when he was the crappy confused dumbass. I don’t know. But I hear your question.
Trent, I for one love your answer, which is about how I feel right now.
Your nobility is extraordinary – and precious. I could never compare. 9/11 hit me personally and hard. Boston revived my sense of vengeance.
Thank you, Paul. I don’t see it so much as noble as I see it as keeping him around to face human justice before he meets divine justice later.
This is profound my friend. Incidentally I read Lorna Doone a long long time ago and would love to read it again 🙂
Wonderful. Of course, here I am referring to the shortbread cookies 😉
Reblogged this on The Sand County and commented:
This is Susan’s evocative take on the Boylston Street bombing. I wanted to share -her love for our world comes through so clearly.
I felt compelled to share this, Susan. You ask great questions here and your passionate/compassionate heart really shines through. Thank you for writing this.
Jeremy, thank you so much for sharing this. I could not think how to articulate this feeling for a few days–it is as close as I could get.