Seven tubes of blood in a neat line. A needle longer 
than a finger slides into the muscle between ribs.
A spaghetti strand of organ suspended in clear solution.
 
Some days my doctor says you have to napalm 
the napalm, but this morning he says undetectable, 
and it’s Thursday the 29th of September, 1988 again— 

on the news, Discovery is inching closer and closer 
to the moment of truth. I’m outside with my class, squinting 
at a trail of cloud as Discovery’s pinprick spark disappears. 

For every disbelief, an equal and opposite belief. Outside 
the blood draw clinic, I believe I see a passenger plane—
upside down, dragging backwards, it banks to a still speck.