WHEN-I-ESCAPED-LIT-LECTURE-ON-FULL-ANGST-MODE

My blood in the bowl like crushed cherries

thankful to have bled

I think of the times before mine

when women pray for the moon to never wane

anticipating the return of dinner from the gut so much

that when the burning dregs scorch up their throats

no one knows if it is the hand of god

or one finger too desperate to please ‘MOTHER’

My blood is the same

Not the unpolitical mess on pads and toilet paper

but the graceful velvet blood moon

sunk in clear clean water

Yet, i think, now, it is different, just as,

My blood when I first fell in love

was different

My blood when I was defenseless in the pool

was different

My blood when I woke crying from my right calf imploding in spasms

was different

this blood is guilty

this blood is sinful

this blood was wanted

it did not flow with the modern woman’s fearless pride

it plonked violent and heavy and loud

from a cherry burst before its time

I love women of my time

Blood of the proud and proud of their blood

But can I call myself one of them?