A Hard Draw by Joan Currie

He offered his arm
to the phlebotomist,
on a pale altar.

The limb was tapped,
warmed, positioned.
Nothing rose.
The vein refused.

More jabs, more prodding.
A butterfly needle,
its tiny cannula
tracking the long geography
of both arms,
as if searching for water
in a punished land.

As last–
a thimbleful of dark crimson,
just enough
to satisfy the panel.

No surprise:
he was like his veins–
sealed off, hoarding
whatever pulse lay hidden.
No flicker, no sound.

His face held
the dry stare
of a camel’s head
on a spike in the Medina.

His latest partner
offered soothing caresses,
soft words,
leaned towards his corpse.
All of it wasted.

He recoiled,
gave up nothing.

Once she thought
she saw a glint–
a slight dilation of the eye.
It was enough
for her to imagine goodness
where none lived.

She learned,
in time,
and left.