Night Stand

I talk too much when I get my blood drawn. It’s a problem born mostly of nerves, as redirecting my thoughts from the emptying of my veins to the phlebotomist’s children is an effective way to reduce anxiety.

I’ve learned a lot about strangers this way–it’s really been quite a pleasure. I now know that an older, balding nurse makes horror films in his free time, and that he really loves his girlfriend. Great to know, really.

In exchange for their life stories, I give them mine. I tell them I’m a writer–that I want to be a writer. They often wish me luck, only slightly doubtfully, and I always thank them for this, only slightly callously.

In thinking back to these conversations, it struck me that these people are taking my blood–an actual piece of my body–and in exchange we learn about each other. Something about this was really beautiful to me.

This sounds like crazy nonsense, but stay with me here. Too often we, myself included, give ourselves without realizing that the other person doesn’t know us at all.

When I give myself, my body, to someone else, I want them to know me–I want them to want to know me.

I love a lot. I try my very best to make the people around me feel what I don’t–worthy, strong, able. However, too often, the people I love don’t know, or even care to know, all of my weird, phlebotomist-chatting quirks.

They get attached to the love and praise I offer them, not to the girl who loves line dancing; the girl who sings to herself in crowded rooms to feel less lonely; the girl who loves to write about space because it scares her.

I decided to write a poem about this feeling.

Here it is. It’s called “Night Stand.”

 

 

Night Stand

 

She folds tablecloths

On dinner dates

Makes galaxies

Of water glass rings

Speaks in broken

Spanish Piroettes

Line dances

Because it feels good

To hold a stranger.

 

She talks too much

To Phlebotomists,

Dear boy

Because when she gives

Her body

To someone else

She wants them to know her.

 

But how often they forget

How often they look down

How often she wishes

To rise from her chest

like glory

And mix with the air

So that they all may have

Just a fraction of her.

 

But, dear boy

Even if Saturn’s rings

Dry on the edge

Of her night stand

She’ll still be there

In the morning.

Invisible.

Beautifully Average-

Floating somewhere

Between teacup stars.