The women in my family believed a lifetime of clear, unblemished skin was guaranteed, but only if you took a bit of your first period blood and daubed it on the spots most prone to acne on your face— I didn't do it. And I didn't know then what I learned recently: that some people feed "blood meal" as fertilizer for their plants because of its rich nutrients of potassium, phosphorus, and nitrogen. Today, the old taboos about even speaking of menstrual periods don't seem as inflexible as before. I remember the day in my middle school science class when I stood up in dismay from the red-stained chair, thinking I must have hurt myself during recess. I'm sure today there'd be at least a serious reprimand for what my teacher then decided to do: turn me into an impromptu lesson on the female reproductive system and its mysterious workings—what will slough off the uterine walls every year for the next 40 years or so, unless the egg gets fertilized. Perhaps the female is a creature shunned or exiled to the outdoors or partitioned from others because of this mysterious power—an unseen wound bleeds yet heals itself; a hidden chamber stretches, soft sweater making room when the body decides it's ready to welcome new life.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.