Volunteer Donor
by Patricia Goodman
reads the sticker on the bag
of red blood cells siphoning into my son
through the port in his chest.
No need to imagine non-volunteers,
strapped to gurneys
in some secret prison. In this room
dozens of cancer patients
are tethered to chairs by tubes.
My son and I drove two hours
through stop-and-go traffic to get here.
After four hours of infusion
we will fight the rush hour home,
repeat for indeterminate months.
Silent beside me in the car,
his tall frame sags, too beaten to straighten.
I need him to smile, tell me he feels better,
but he fumbles for his nausea medicine.
I wish I could take heart
in spring’s shy reds unfolding
along the road…
instead, they feel like wounds.
I would never volunteer for this life.
by Patricia Goodman
reads the sticker on the bag
of red blood cells siphoning into my son
through the port in his chest.
No need to imagine non-volunteers,
strapped to gurneys
in some secret prison. In this room
dozens of cancer patients
are tethered to chairs by tubes.
My son and I drove two hours
through stop-and-go traffic to get here.
After four hours of infusion
we will fight the rush hour home,
repeat for indeterminate months.
Silent beside me in the car,
his tall frame sags, too beaten to straighten.
I need him to smile, tell me he feels better,
but he fumbles for his nausea medicine.
I wish I could take heart
in spring’s shy reds unfolding
along the road…
instead, they feel like wounds.
I would never volunteer for this life.
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