I ran into a cart in the hallway,

boxes of supplies overturned

and knocked to the carpet.

I saw it as I knelt to pick up the stylets and swabs,

a bruise rising to the surface of my elbow

where the epicondyle struck the cart—

I remembered that, once, during a blood draw,

the needle in my vein produced no blood.

The phlebotomist reminded me to breathe and, with an inhale,

the vessel became a wide-mouthed jar.

With the bruise still flowering at the bend of my arm,

I held my breath:

To sink the leaked blood back into the earth of my marrow,

soak it up like groundwater for safekeeping and emergency.

—

A woman came to the clinic to have her lungs tested and, as we prepared,

she pointed to her left eye—

This is made of acrylic, she said.

            I lost the eye to cancer.

She reached up and touched the painted green iris

with the tip of her finger, pushed it inward in its socket,

the eye like a polished curve of shell found by a lake.

I handed her a nose clip for the procedure &

prayed silently for the preservation of blood—

For plenty to keep my lungs clear,

cleanse the retinas,

grasp unsafe cells and

hold them under

until they drown

Author Description:  I participated in a year-long internship program for students interested in the health professions, and this poem is about my experience in one of the hospital rotations.

Download a copy of Acrylic – Kristin LaFollette, PhD

Bio: Kristin LaFollette is the author of Hematology (winner of the 2021 Harbor Editions Laureate Prize) and Body Parts (winner of the 2017 GFT Press Chapbook Prize). She received her Ph.D. from Bowling Green State University and is a professor at the University of Southern Indiana. Learn more about her work at kristinlafollette.com.