by Silas Denver Melvin

the white scrim of medical paper crinkles.
the clown offers out his arm, laid between
the bed & the cart like a clothesline.
her nimble fingers
tie off the tourniquet.
the motion reminds him of
fastening balloon animals.
the nurse draws blood through a thin tube.
she asks how he’s doing, if he needs juice
or a hand to squeeze. i’m alright. doin’ good.
his lip, painted black into a pout,
only quivers a fine amount, almost not at all.
she pats his polka-dot knee. you’ve been
shot out of cannons, she says, this is nothing.
she holds the vial titled to the light
& watches the glitter swim, glisten, start to clot.
with a swab, she dabs the soft spot of his elbow
then politely rolls the ruffled sleeve back down.
i’ll run this & we’ll be finished.
when she returns to the room, she says sir,
then sorry, then clown.

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silas denver melvin (he/him) is a transsexual poet from New Hampshire. His work is published or forthcoming with Ghosty City Review, Bullshit Lit, Hominum Journal, Bleating Thing, The Garlic Press, and elsewhere. silas currently serves as head of poetry with Beaver Magazine. He can be found on Twitter + Tumblr @sweatermuppet & Instagram @sweatermuppets.