Period Room

I have left the dim room with its etched-glass

light cover where the smell is rose, patchouli, blood.

These days I’m made of marble. I have swirl-embedded

elbows, knees, and breasts. I have left the crib, the coddle,

cough and fever room. And I packed my tools. Into my body

I nailed my jewels. My heart is an abacus I have never stopped

counting, the alphabet is written in rings around my throat.

I hung the velvet rope across that door. Mother oh, oh father.

The understanding stung. The weight of light capsized at my core.