Blood Flow. A Good Friday Poem.

Down, always down

like sweat from a temple.

Not a garden variety prayer,

but seeds cast in a silhouette of Eden.

A longing for another way

before acquiescence.

 

Then hung up like an I.V.

Slung like a bag

to drain the life out of him.

Platelets sent while we lie

etherized upon a table.

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