My time of month

is not a tax-collector;

it is the long-awaited letter,

never coming when the time is right

but only when I have ceased to care

or have forgotten its entire existence.

It is my shy guest,

never coming around without

weeks of preparation and

careful invitation.

And,

in the comfort of its own vacuousness,

it never eats; it

swells at the sight of pastel icing and

rich plum-colored jelly; it

prances in anticipation for

tender kidneys and levator scapulae;

it quivers in its blood-sack for

bonbons, bursting with cream

but it knows better

the reward of remaining

abstinent