Justin Lacour 🔈
Tuesday, 7:39 p.m.
I’m thinking tonight of the professional
plasma donors, their workday finally ending.
Guys experienced enough to bring
blankets and snacks for the chair.
Guys hugged by the nurses hooking
them to blood-sucking machines.
I don’t understand why the people I love
don’t love me back, yet I get it.
I may start dipping my sandwich in water
before I chew it, like the competitive
eaters do; that could make a difference,
or at least make things go a little smoother.
Some people post their workouts,
others bring their dogs to bars
(there may be some overlap here).
I do neither, but was a noted book thief
in my youth. Things were different back
then; you could get away with things.
Now, I sit in this garden I didn’t plant.
My thoughts go from blood to gardens,
Eve and the poppies and sunlight of Eden.
I picture her hair long against her back,
like its dream was to slither down
to the earth, to lose itself in the new grass.
It thought there was enough time.
About the Author
Justin Lacour lives in New Orleans and edits Trampoline: A Journal of Poetry. He is the author of three chapbooks, including My Heart is Shaped Like a Bed: 46 Sonnets (Fjords 2022), and This Fire, forthcoming from Ursus Americanus Press. Buy copies on Bookshop.org.