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.

—Martha Rhodes (A few books)