Come to me, his blood
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.