IT SHOULD BE CALLED WOMENSTRUATE
This poem also appears in Chertock’s “Crumb-sized” (Unnamed Press, 2017)
There are no men involved in this
ancient act of bleeding,
this Red Seaing
between our thighs,
this ritual we can’t help
but take part in.
Menstruous, a male name
given to blood
in 1375, when we were dying
of the Black Death. Oozing sores. Pus.
But this flowing red river
is not monstrous.
This power socket of cum joules,
this tingling triangle, this coaxing
cave, this primordial pomegranate
is not monstrous, is full of sap
and blood and ever-expanding,
like the universe after its big bang.
Our bodies know when others
are on it. Electricity humming
between our valleys below,
current arcing from woman
to woman. We womenstruate
together. Share in the seeping.