1 June 2009

Come to me, his blood, a poem by Martha Rhodes

Come to me, his blood,
so I may cup you,
be reservoir and ladle, both—
clean, store, and stir.
Then serve you back to him.

Come to me, his blood, ill,
so I may warm, sieve, and funnel
you back to him; his cheeks ruddy
again, his head in my lap.
The wind is up! and sails our boat

across Farm Pond, our friends
on shore waving us to picnic time—
a hammock-nap, a swim—
all four of us, all well.
Not dozens of summers ago,

but now, this final Sunday in July,
come to me his blood, don't rush
onto a lawn or street, don't seep—
but if you do leave him, if spilt,
you who cannot slow or thicken,

redirect yourself—you must—come to me
and I will bring you back to him.

Martha Rhodes
New England Review
Volume 29, Number 1 / 2008

Copyright © 2008 by Middlebury College Publications
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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