Periodical Ghazal

A poem of mine ….

“Periodical Ghazal “

The time has come again for blood.

I do not pain, I am not cut, and yet I bleed blood.

 

Drip, drip, drop blood, the crimson liquid flows

Cascading from my barren womb, the dark blood.

 

The death of life before it has begun, the silent gush

The pointless push, the heartless mush of crying blood.

 

The never-ending circle, an unyeilding cycle

an open-ended unhealing  wound of women’s blood.

 

The safety net of man and innocence of child suffer not,

The scarlet shock, of wasted washed up blood.

The stain of it, the shame of it, the unrelenting pain of it

Natures way of painting it with blood.

Each adolescent lives in fear, awaiting the day of womanhood

A celebration mothers say; a cannibalistic feast for blood

 

In Dinah’s tent the women waited for the fullness of each new moon,

Outcasts without child they waited together for the flood of blood

I ache but am not bitter, I understand the plan, I am not ready for motherhood

And so I must, unjustly suffer the whispered hush of monthly blood.

 

With silver smeared intensity, seven moons before I’m done

My sad womb, I hope some day that life will swell me and you can keep the blood.

Ariana D

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