Amy Miller


She pushes and prods and strangles
but can’t find a vein. Says sorry
and threads a butterfly needle
into the back of my hand. She has never
hurt me. She says at the penitentiary
she always had this problem, their
collapses and tracks. She asks, do I know
the one place you can always find one?
I say between the toes; I’ve seen this
in the movies. She says no, it’s right here.
She slashes her fingers across
the delicate inside of my wrist.

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