Held

The phlebotomist pressed it down

and I watched the vein rise like a small rope

under the fluorescent light,

blue and obvious and completely mine.

Her hand was cold and certain.

I'd never noticed before

how much the wrist gives away—

how there's almost nothing between

the blood and someone else's fingers.

She found it on the first try.

The needle went in without asking,

and I felt the small theft of it,

the weight of my own body

leaving me through that one soft place.

Three weeks later and I can still feel

where she held it.

Not a mark. Just the memory

of being pinned and exposed

and having no choice

but to let her.