The blood of someone’s grandfather
spurts into the air
Old faithfully one, two, three times
toward the ceiling
the force of a beating heart
just inches below it.
The surgeon is younger than me
wearing old fashioned jewelers lenses
and a blue paper mask.
Someone’s sister exhales and
a brother straightens his back
when the fountain finally stops.
The patch is made of cow’s skin
no bigger than a dime
The plaque rolls around in a tin cup
a yellowy plug, clanging
Someone’s grandfather has white hair
I saw it before they turned on the gas
and covered up every part of his body but his neck
Someone’s husband runs to get the right machine
to see the new blood flow
Is it staying in the lines?