I do not remember my first period.
Does this make me less woman? less uterin?
except It is all blood, all blushing blot and clot.
It is forever pink leaking. It is forever thick,
deep summer ache.
I do remember when I learned gender: by exclusion,
by a him’s abandon. Dirt sweated skin rejected
for feminine. I didn’t get it. I still don’t get it.
Just warm with shame and blood.
If I could hollow out my womb, I would.
It is not my woman, though I lead with it.
I like it filled, empty, filled, empty, full.
These hips make for width. They weigh,
wait for work: earn their keep
with prowess and draw.