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"Collecting Artificial Parts" by Gabby Gilliam



It starts with a mouthful of blood

gums swollen and sore

platelet count too low for her body

to form a clot. They insert a picc line

in her chest, direct access to bright

blue veins like wires that have forgotten


how to spark. Chemical conflations

travel through tubes. Azacitidine. Decadrol.

Vincristine. Alphabet soup pumping

through PVC. Bruises blossom on thighs,

on back, on fingertips. They siphon out

tainted blood —scrape her bones free

of rotten marrow— inject someone else’s

stem cells to take its place.


She wants to scream until her face

is blue as her mottled skin but her lungs

are as infected as her blood, so she tucks

her rage under a rib, promises to release it

once she reaches open air.

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