Blood

I am not a feminist,

but when I see conglomerates

of blood in the toilet bowl, I feel my womanly womb

clench her muscles and my authority re-wild,

yet still modesty

and insularity heightens

still embarrassed if a cotton pad falls

out of the bag or if

red blood is caught on the sheets

like I have to be ashamed of soiling something, beside

someone who only exists because

we can bleed as human beings

I remember hiding period pads as a teenager

under the armpit

when I bumped into a boy in a shop

I remember too

my dying granny wearing a pad on her deathbed—

I guess cancer and age makes people incontinent

as we were babies so we become again in our old age

I tell the man that I can’t have sex tonight because

I am bleeding—”you always say that,” he says

Once a month, I say I say it, maybe more

because it’s a brilliant get out clause.

But I’m lying and lied

and lie

I haven’t bled in 10 years and when I say it now

to a man,

I say it with pride.

I am Bleeding and every drop of blood means victory,

womanhood,

control, and a letting go.

I am not a feminist but fuck me,

the redness of that red in the blood

is fascinating.

I am a painter so maybe I see differently,

but look next time and you’ll see what I mean.

It has got every shade of crimson cream

He tells me “don’t be so feministic, don’t use it on the canvas”

If I do someday, I won’t tell you

it would only enhance the work

and give off that sweet air of woman

that has been soiled for so long

by shame and shambles.