"The human heart
can pump five liters
of blood per minute,"
you told me once. Held
out your hands and cupped
them, two moons repelled
by magnetic forces when full,
drawing you ever so slightly
in two directions. Maybe
I should have been impressed
by your knowledge
or just the statistic, but
all I could see was the bathroom
five years later, blood
weaving friendship
bracelets across your skin,
flooding the cracks in the floor
we had never bothered to
fill. Too late. I was told many things
I still cannot remember, cannot
belive.
I do remember
how your side of the
moon was always half empty
and never half full. I couldn't
bring myself to watch
as they examined you,
rounded hands that made
me look at my own
and see spider webs.
Salty dew mixed with
blood.
By Laura L.
69
Remembering the Blood Moon