Ichor

The father died and then the mother died.
                  And you were so addicted

to not feeling them, you told no one about the clamp
                  inside—

around the vena cava. Dam against the blood's
                  trash—

But I've got you now. Trussed at the waist
                  in a wooden chair,

odor of spice and
                  oranges, clove-pierced, incandescent stores

                  to light our lab's decor—

Here. I saved this just for you.
                  Beetle-cleaned and sharp at the tip, the finger that shook

in your set face
                  from the hand that smoothed your hair—

Make a fist.
                  Wrap the tube round your fleshy arm, pull the black rubber

tight—
                  will we finally

see the sludge of their accumulated mouths, ah, you've said,
                  how they poisoned me...

Pierce in
                  with your mother's finger-bone, taste the slow up-well—

Sweet.
                   Sweet. Surge ambrosial and clear—

A honey, an ichor.
                   From those who waited long

                   in your veins.

More Poems by Dana Levin