1 p.m., shards of glass-brittle sunshine
struggle weakly through the window;
light like spun glass strikes plastic
as you briskly slot phial upon phial:
two yellow-capped, one mauve, one grey.
Your fingers tense, tightening the tourniquet,
and my skin tingles taut, the strangled vein swelling -
the colour of a washy blue winter sky
bulging to burst its raindrops.
Whitewashed walls reel, woozy with winter's anaemia,
and the radiatorless room is needle-sharp with cold.
I blench as the needle pierces blanched polar pallor
and you coax a scarlet stream from snowdrift skin;
siphoning the hot rubies of my raw life.
for Andrea's SF contest