for Frank Chattaway
Arm outstretched for a mate
he lies
wet with sweat
beside the Burma Railway
in ’43.
Skin pierced, line affixed to needle,
a bamboo whisk stirs blood
pooling in the bowl
below
to
keep
the
mix
as
thin
as
the
men.
A pint drained, the needle passes from
one man’s vein to the other, tube
and bowl held high, bamboo
beating all the while
as red runs
down
and
in
.
Through offspring bloodlines flow.