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Cover by artist Nicole Harp

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Blood Test Results

The orchid decides if this poem finds me
recognizing the gaunt reflection on the screen.

I’ve got high ALTs and predispositions
for throwin’ hands at tulips.

Who will remove my liver, this half sunken
ballyhoo? Is Audrey Hepburn on the dance floor?

A purple iris hangs from a heart murmur.
Be your best selfie. Real tears. Real talk.

The doctor slaps me with anemia.
A titmouse peters in the magnolia over my head

an auction of neighborhood gossip, victim
of teletype. Pinstripe calathea with a DNR tag.

I’ll smoke poppy with Crosby, be incriminated.
I need this job; my baby’s gotta eat.

Chewie's Sunday Morning Nap 

I was in love, but I found myself
speaking Lutheran. Should I feel nothing

move across my chest?
If you put on Merle Haggard,

I’ll mix more Old Fashioneds. In 1985
I was a child newly aware of street lights,

cracked eyeglasses, wavelengths
of songbirds carrying my heart in a mandolin.

Finesse me. I eat black bread and butter
burn every red flag along the way.

My life’s been a commercial, a strategy
of short controlled bursts. I don’t remember

the witness, the wig, the two days
I learned “Camptown Races” on harmonica.

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Dana Alan © 2024