Hi Friends,
I've had four nosebleeds in the past 24 hours, so I guess I have blood on the brain. Two of my favorite poems about blood are both by Sherman Alexie — "13/16," which I've sent you before if you've been on this list awhile; and today's poem-a-day, "Giving Blood." Do you have a favorite blood poem?
April is National Poetry Month, and I am celebrating by emailing out my own selection of one poem per day for the duration of the month. To learn more about National Poetry Month, visit www.poets.org, the website of the Academy of American Poets, where you can also subscribe to a more official-like poem-a-day list.
Best,
Ellen
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Giving Blood
I need money for the taxi cab ride home to the reservation and
I need a taxi
because all the Indians left this city last night while I was sleeping
and forgot to tell me
so I walk on down to the blood bank with a coupon that guarantees
me twenty bucks a pint
and I figure I can stand to lose three or four pints but the
white nurse says no
you can only give up one pint at a time and before you can do that
you have to clear
our extensive screening process which involves a physical examination
and interview
which is a pain in the ass but I need the money so I sit down
at a wooden desk
across from the white nurse holding a pen and paper and she asks me
my name and I tell her
Crazy Horse and she asks my birthdate and I tell her it was probably
June 25 in 1876 and then she asks my ethnic origin and I tell her I'm an
Indian or Native American
depending on your view of historical accuracy and she asks me
my religious preference and I tell her I prefer to keep my
religion entirely independent
of my economic activities
and then she asks me how many sexual partners I've had and
I say one or two
depending on your definition of what I did to Custer and then
she puts aside her pen and paper
and gives me the most important question she asks me
if I still have enough heart
and I tell her I don't know it's been a long time but I'd like to
give it a try
and then she smiles and turns to her computer punches in my name
and vital information
and we wait together for the results until the computer prints
a sheet of statistics
and the white nurse reads it over a few times and tells me I'm
sorry Mr. Crazy Horse
but we've already taken too much of your blood
and you won't be eligible
to donate for another generation or two.
Labels: NPM