a poetic lamentation
It’s called a period
but how many times
do we have the fortune
of it being only a
statement;
It’s called a period
but how many times
would we like
the exclamation point
vibrating with immense pressure
quaking our uterine walls
cramping, crimping, and cringing
bloody waterfall of tissues
to unwedge itself from our craw
and embrace us in parentheses
of heating pad, hot bath or shower,
and/or food craving;
It’s called a period
but how many times
is it a question mark
slithering down the leg
outside of the bedtime fashioned canoe pad
or dripping from the the overflowing tampon
leaving us to wonder why
we still have a uterus;
It’s called a period
but how many times
do we want to ellipses and/or dash
our way out of everything…
