From Recherches sur l'anatomie des Limules Paris,1873
Image Courtesy of the Biodiversity Heritage Library
blue blood drips into clear glass bottles
as the horseshoe crabs are bled—
picture a cerulean blue
or the wing of a chalkhill blue—
and still the photo startles the way
I once jumped up after sitting on a cactus,
the needles penetrating deep beyond
seven layers of skin—
and though I’ve heard of the practice,
it did not register, I mean
I didn’t understand
what it meant to be inside—
hundreds of them,
tipped like army helmets in long single files
in perfect formation, immobile
in their sacrifice
as the blue blood is drawn,
or shall we say withdrawn
not like the pretty vial of ruby
I gave this week
to have my counts worked up,
self-satisfied and a little bit sick.
No, this is serious business
and too late to look away
and say, I had no idea
as they extract the precious blue blood
from a vein near the heart,
and after a few days, throw them
back into the ocean and say, they’ll be fine