First day of my blood time. Again.
Burnt orange and muddied brown.
I am trying to turn a nightmare into a poem.
It is not enough to fill me.
Words like windows. A hiccup of shadow,
Swords drawn. And still the new blood
Is bitter. And the heavy dull weight of it
Is the opposite of joy.
There is red wax on the windowsill.
My name inscribed. My body’s palimpsest
Is read and re-read. I am not full.
Sunflower and two orange lilies.
A spray of baby’s breath. Rose leaves,
Thorns intact. An asymptotic curve.
Small bones unformed. The wet
Black promises somehow kept alive.
The smell of cumin and clean
Yeast rising. Lentils stewing
In a cast iron pot.
My body. Walled interiority.
A fortress of no choice, of death
Walking softly. Whispering into
A shout. No words to describe it.
This doubled event horizon,
This plane of silvered loss. I am
Outside the garden now.