A sample of Bloodline
A collection by Ari Eastman
Vessels — page 7
for I was nothing
without the two of you.
a beautiful mess,
a tiny idea,
planted without judgement,
with tender hands.
I am here
because you plucked the weeds
from a potted rosebush,
where miraculously
and without warning,
I grew
Healthy is a foreign object — page 17
“It’s like, about the size of a grapefruit.”
Mom stretches her hands out to create a circle,
far too large for what she’s explaining.
That thing that has taken refuge inside her throat.
Nobody invited it here.
They are scheduling a time to cut her open,
to take away the intruder strangling her thyroid.
But I’m not as scared as you’d think.
Mom makes jokes and kisses my cheek.
I’m used to these things.
Mom carries empty pill bottles in her purse.
She has at least three doctors
and I can name them all.
It’s always been this way.
Lavender — page 23
The boy nextdoor teaches me how
to suck the honeylike sap out
from the purple flowers sitting up on the hill.
I refuse to do it the first few times.
Always a cautious child,
I was never going to be the one
jumping off a bridge just because my friends did.
I was going to be the one
begging them to think twice.
I was going to be the one
running down the street yelling for help.
He promises me they’re edible,
and he knows this because he’s done it often
and never been sick.
I make him show me.
I have learned to not believe words from boys,
I prefer actions I can verify.
He puts it delicately between his teeth
and noisily slurps the contents.
I agree to give it a try.
But only when I’m sure it won’t hurt me.
Only once I’ve seen the proof.