Gold and Iron

They add colloidal gold
to glass, sometimes,
to make that ruby color. They heat it,

render it liquid and viscous, and
when it is just right,
the master glassblower blows into it,

and shapes it into a pitcher,
or a flask. Maybe something like
the vase on your kitchen windowsill,

glowing and catching the light
just so, ready to hold field flowers
brought to you by a grandchild

until someone uncaring, boxing up
your belongings for charity, all the unwanted stuff,
the stuff of no value, throws it away.

Iron, a base metal, gave your blood
that rich red color. More precious than gold,
blood gels like molten glass

as it puddles and cools.
Glass is both strong and brittle.
And so it is with the body—

sometimes, there is a flaw or a weakness. In the OR,
our sutures fail, stitch after stitch,
and the red blood splashes lavishly

on the floor. The ruby glass vase, knocked
off the window ledge, where you had placed it,
has shattered.