This poem articulates better than I ever could the selfless and healing act of caring for the ill or injured by donating blood at the bloodmobile. The author, Barbara Eash Shisler, was a classmate of my husband at Eastern Mennonite High School. The poem is one in a collection: Michigan Farmhouse, Naming the Rooms.
Enjoy, and go donate! Carolyn
At The Bloodmobile
In my wavering I will do this deed,
climb on the table and be tapped,
a maiden oil field,
though this oil is dearer than Iran
and the color of love.
I study the ceiling, pine cathedral arch,
knots like clots, while the nurse cheers,
Blood scenes spurt before me:
Calvary's fountain with plunging sinners;
Sticky white underwear and a thirteen's
The drenched fur of a wayside kitten;
Sacred streams of birth and death,
while here mine darkly
fattens a plastic bag.
In company my heart pumps on.
Laid out in rows, we bleed for mankind.
we sacrifice our true-blood,
rubies offered for the mining
to save the world its deadly dying.
My oblation ended, I rise to tea
and doughnuts, party Red Cross,
abashed for my blushing pint.
Save valor for the fight,
laugh at a bleeding heart.
Go refreshed into summer dark,
into rich dark life lean and pulsing.