"Good Blood," by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
You have good blood, the nurse
informs me. Not too thin, and lots
of waxy fat cells, my very own
holly berries decking my veins.
Or does she mean my blood is warm-
not like the Atlantic at the end
of the year, cooling like soup
whenever a storm brews
the other side of the Earth?
Quite possibly, she means
it's the color that's just fine-
not purple, the pox
on my mother's plum tree-
not brown like weevils burying
themselves into acorns
on my street--but red, as in
pepper, wine, finch throats,
a ladybeetle's shell, the star
my father always points out
to me on my birthday,
two days before His.
Improvisation:
Healthy Teeth
No cavities and little plaque, the dental
hygienist mouthed through her new set of
pearly veneers.
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