The Donor
by Judith Curtis

The oily smell of black blood reeks as
hypodermic rigs pierce Earth's deep arteries
to pump plasma into pipelines. Transfused
to engine veins where pulse is measured in rpms,
the precious unguent lubricates time,
propels it forward, permits running man
to ride, to fly, to visit the moon,
to engage in the sanguine pleasures of a war
fought to determine who will drink
the last of the sacrificial blood drawn
from a patient mother willing
to give her life for her children.

Copyright © 2007 - Judith Curtis
Published: 11/1/07   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem