Cameron Morse


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.

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