She is cramping up
That dreaded time of the month,
Of stomach cramps and vicious nausea.
How a follicle, debris and lining
Will collapse and come down
In a flash. She takes a wine glass
Sips it to forget, knowing that she
Can never fake that time of the month
Like she fakes the other big “o” in bed.
And one day though, she will miss the cramps
And the feeling of some monster
Inside your system, crying out
For some comfort care. All the tampons
Filled with spongy material, soaked in little flush
Funneled down an open mouth.
A follicle that is exfoliated from her ovaries
And drags some lining with it,
And a pre-leak season of key and lock
Dream and nightmare, legacy and infamy
Making her anxious between her hips.
400 eggs it took to finally slumber
To weather-proof the cradle of biology.
And yet, it only took one to take her away to paradise.
How a woman, then in her mid 30s
Embraced the lining, the growth, the bundle
Of a little mass that will forever
Be her legacy. When she knew, the next time
She leaks, she will only be leaking life.