by Karen Stromberg

Sometimes I think I might
just drain my blood myself.
I've never like technicians
touching my body
I could say good-bye to the trees, the sky,
the great bend of the horizon,
shut all the windows
turn down the thermostat.
I could comb out my hair like an aura,
wipe the color from my skin until it's cold blue,
with a twilight of white scars.
Release the cargo of the heart--
(the quick little hands of fear,
dove-like in flight),
return the last of the air,
and leave.

Copyright 2021 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.