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Special
Section -- Spirit
Are they prominent and soft, or fine
like dark thread? Are they hidden
beneath spongy layers of adipose?
And the skin, is it thick like tanned leather,
or thin like a white veil separating
the inner and outer worlds?
Should I use a tourniquet?
Will the vein distend and harden,
roll from the needle's probe?
Or will binding pressure burst
the thin blue line, ecchymosis
purpling
the tissues.
Take
a deep breath, I say,
imagine your vein is a caterpillar,
fat and juicy. I swipe antiseptic
across the target, twirl the steel
stylette in the cannula.
Please, God.
Please let me get in, first stick.
I can't think of this as real now,
can't think of causing pain, injury.
The angiocath becomes a harpoon,
the
arm a lifeless fish.
I
pierce the flesh --
Don't move now! and wait
for crimson flashback in the needle's hub.
Score, there it is. I hook up tubing,
chevron the paper tape over and under,
place a see-through dressing.
Blue lights flash, the IV pump
beeps
to life.
Yes.
I have been granted the power again.
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