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

swims through her land faithfully

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

commit a sin

by partaking in the flesh and blood of Christ

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 celibacy.


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