There is hair, yes
A fly on the sill
An itch
beneath the waxy scar
where they tapped
into a vein
above my heart
I say to the doctor
Those phlebotomists
are all pricks
My timing
is impeccable
She opens a layer
between my skin
and the air
where the spine
is ridged
like the edge of a coin
The pain, on a scale
from one to ten
is seven
and rising
A sharp noise
A bed of ants
Bardia Sinaee’s first book of poetry is called Intruder. He lives in Toronto.
