Conversation swirls around the bloodmobile,
an iodine swab cleans my arm.
Phlebotomists discuss lunch
over my head as my blood drips
into a plastic bag.
“Vietnamese, Chinese, what’s the difference. Soup.”
I chew on a poem Sharon Olds wrote.
I suck and savor, pull the marrow
out of its bone
with my mouth,
Slide her words
over my tongue.