Tim Suermondt
I lie back a little dreamlike,
let Mary Immaculate take the blood she needs.
The sun has found its way inside,
enveloping all of us in its light—
I swear I see my mother putting my brothers to bed,
“There aren’t any monsters. Be brave like Hoppy.”
Before I can say a word to her, she’s gone.
“You’ve got good blood,” the nurse says.
I answer with an expression mother always used
whenever she encountered something exemplary:
“Beautiful as the Rubies of Babylon.”
“Yeah,” the nurse says, quickly pulling the needle
out of my arm, “sometimes beauty is enough to make
me cry, if I didn’t have to cry.”
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