Tuesday, November 17, 2015

In Her Tenth Year

Her inner iron melts
as she is being leeched
scraping the rust
on her soul
her smell of blood changes colors
Twenty five days of being human
and five of being an injured cow
that is being milked, drop by drop.
Every month this river
trespasses her land like a robber
much like the July rain
that the crops need for tilling.
‘Be careful lest it gets stained’

‘Do not touch the pickle, else you’ll spoil it’
she stays back at home else she may
dirty a building by entering it
her body doesn’t listen to her
as her earth erodes.

On those days she collects her stains
from her scars
silencing the shrieks of the planet
by stuffing its mouth
with menstrual waste.
In another world, women still use rags, dirty cloth
and husk to soak their rivers of rage,
as she crumples like a foetus
to contain her cramps
a ten year old child, ignorant and ill
of a bleeding that is virginal,
chocolates and tears are her allies
she stamps her foot to complain
to mother nature
‘Why this bad blood?’
while another woman
is happy that her husband
won’t  touch her for the next five days
until then her body will reclaim
it’s unholy celibacy.

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