The nurse didn’t see fit to tell me until later that I had bled all over arm, armrest, and
the corner of my sweatshirt. She could tell, I suspect, that I was a little green,
and so withheld until it was over.
Then she called another nurse over to mop me up,
While I looked the other way and breathed deeply.
Still, I knew.
It’s not the needle, really.
For Cam it is. He went pale on the way to the snack table and had to be bolstered up
and ushered over to a corner cot.
For me, it’s the bloodletting. The concept of draining blood,
independent of instruments used.
It’s the bag full of warm blackness, which the nurses toss around like it’s a water balloon.
It’s the stacks and stacks of them, sorted and labeled and shipped away.
And so when I spurted (when the needle was removed, or so I am told),
It was too much.
I was a carcass draining, and it was too much.
Naturally, I fainted, even before I could make a joke about Find Me My Smelling Salts.