Diana, this time, fetches me before sunrise
from the waiting room at Saint Luke’s Imaging.
Diana, hunter goddess of the moon,
leads me into her inner chamber and straps
a tourniquet to my bicep. I squeeze her
rubber ball. To get my blood up, I pump my fist.
The silver tip of her arrow glances off the wall
of my vein like a moonbeam. This, she calls,
“advancing the catheter.” She swabs
the inkblot of my blood with alcohol and fires again.
I know the drill like a centurion, scar tissue
inveterate, on methylprednisolone
and Benadryl. In the machine room Diana pulls off
my glasses and lays them on her stainless-steel
nightstand. The coil chiller chirps. Its apiary birdsong
lulling me, I ease my neck into her lunette,
her crescent moon. My bracelet says FALL
RISK as my feet lift off the ground.