Something happened last night
a keening began below
the waist. An arrow
released from a harp,
the first note crimson
in dim light, then a steady
dirge lamenting its way
down. I yearned for before
the blood; I had boiled rice,
bloated the grains with water,
then an owl sounded the alarm:
two concise hoos & a long
slithering clot. I knotted
a towel to quiet the song,
plunged the cloth in bleach,
anything to muffle the stain.
My hands, just hands itched raw,
still sorrowed pink.
Cover photo by Bernadetta Watts
