Monday, September 26, 2011

Keith Rawson


the nurse
drawing my plasma
is having
trouble finding
a vein

she asks again
about drug use

about why I'm choosing
to donate

her fingers shake,
her skin is blotchy

with whiteheads,
her voice is a cat's tail

in a rusty screen door.

I tell her,

I'm too lazy to work
for $7.50 an hour
rent is

in two weeks

and giving blood is easier
than sticking a gun
in someone's

Keith confesses: "Simply put: The narrator is me circa 1995 in Flagstaff, AZ. It's a snippet of conversation between myself and a medical assistant who couldn't find a vein in either of my arms and ended up jabbing me nearly twenty times before she drove it home."

Keith's video intro and reading of "$25":

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KEITH RAWSON's stories, poems, essays, reviews and interviews have been widely published both online and in print. He is the author of the short story collection, The Chaos We Know (Snubnose Press) and Co-Editor of the anthology, Crime Factory: The First Shift. He is a staff writer at LitReactor and Spinetingler Magazine. He lives in Southern Arizona with his wife and daughter.


Sean Patrick Reardon said...

Wow, Keith, that was some powerful stuff, especailly with your added commentary.

Thomas Pluck said...

Great poem, Keith. Many people think selling plasma or blood is a joke, I imagine. Thank you for sharing this and the origin with us.

Josh Stallings said...

Oh hell yes. Keith, I used to give plasma for much needed money, when my son was a baby. You nailed the feeling. Plasma they take out, centrifuge off and put back in you only now its cold. Thanks for bring that long forgotten memory.

Michelle said...

Very, very nice. I love the flow of the poem. (Excuse the pun)