O' how do I love thee
the excuse of my month, the red high-lite
asucculent cherry riding my Sunday of problems
the stomach ache from eating the whole thing.
You, dear Period
surpass the zits on my face
occasional red, angry
volcanoes of pain that fester
if left to be dormant. I can stop these
but you I cannot;
you come as naturally as constipation comes
after two steamy, delicious hot fudges.
The red dots appear and I know it is you
or perhaps you might give me the wonderful surprise
of waking to red-soaked sheets;
Isee my crap turn red under your influence
along with vaginal discharge
how I would hate the swelling of my belly
if you did not come
what relief I feel after suspense
when I finally see your red
telling me that there is no babe to suckle.
Flesh and blood ripped from inside me
Something not nurtured
Contracting my stomach, devilish pain
monthly, let me remind you.
And men rip my insides as well,
pop my cherries, I'll see you early---
not quite yet.
Decorations are repeatedly ripped from my walls,
you, you show me that,
you, the stain in my stiff, new jeans
the high-lite of my life
the essence of womanhood.
Do not ask. I have no idea why I wrote this, except for the fact that I have been reading much of Marge Piercy.