Transfusion. by Jordan Sanderson

Brought to you by lack of coordination, the inimitable bloody nose!
And what’s more beautiful than blood in streetlight? Two symmetrical
drops like a bisected heart, red and wet as lips after a first kiss.
The farther one gets from one’s first kiss—farther, because the distance
between kisses can be measured in kisses—the closer one gets
to one’s next kiss. This is the truth of kissing. And also of bleeding.
The nose often intrudes on kisses, becoming entangled in the nostrils
of the other person, or worse yet, it smushes against a cheek, forcing
a sinus to drain, a trickle down the back of the throat that causes
the tongue to retreat a bit, a muffled gag. Once, a man, caught in the
ecstasy of a convenience store scratch-off, slammed his face on the counter.
The clerk took the man’s face in both hands as if to examine the damage
but slammed her mouth against his. The moment turned into something
of a transfusion, and they knew what each other smelled like at birth.

Jordan's work has recently appeared in Better: A Journal of Culture and Lit, the Fiddleback, and South Florida Arts Journal, among others. He is also the author of a chapbook, The Formulas (ELJ Publications, 2014). He earned a PhD from the Center for Writers at the University of Southern Mississippi, and currently teaches at Mississippi Gulf Coast Community College. @docsanderson
Jordan's page at ELJ Publications.