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Lunch Poems

Platelet Count Descending

A new poem by the author of Chronic, in which Lady Sings the Blues is intoned, sung, spoken, and hollered.

Which is why no biopsy.

Which is why no root canal.

Which is why the blood draw
made that simple stick
into a plum branch bruise.

I’m singing Lady Sings the Blues.

Panhandle Park is a bit attenuated,

Easy to spot the blackbirds
in the sycamores,
as the branches denude.

What protects us
goes away. I get it now:

you probably still go bareback
as you were wont to then.

I needn’t tell you check the mirror
once in a while.

I know you do.
And that you’ll worry

if, like facts and blood,
you, too, begin to thin.

                                            —for Haines Eason

D. A. Powell’s most recent book, Chronic, was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award in Poetry. Powell’s poems appear in Boston Review, American Poetry Review, and A Public Space. With T. J. DiFrancesco, he co-edits Lo-Ball. More by D. A. Powell