Blood Serum，-37°c Poem by Xiaoyuan Yin

Blood Serum，-37°C
By Xiaoyuan Yin

A vinyl record and a blood centrifuge machine, rotating in the same way, made the world
As bustling as a casino. Red dices, white dices, (‘cells' or whatever you call them)
All roll in the rhythm of Symphony No.9. There are parched cracked tenements of clay,
And balmy smooth ones of tallow. On the seesaw of natural cycle
Neither is always predominated. Time is dislocated occasionally
Till nothing but white is left. No more blood stain in the ward,
Sheets and walls almost indistinguishable from the sky above. The serpent came rolled up into a ball
And went away hanging around someone's neck, turning from shackles
To a crown. ‘It is our warm-blooded brother now,
While its venom remains.' ‘I'd rather the bite of it
Has left me a tattoo-shaped scar.' Seven thousand voices foaming up
And then drifted away. Your Savior, perching in the pale yellow tube.
Sometimes rises, drawing His long white beard behind him
To check out shimmers on this magical liquid, and sits back
Before being noticed.