Don't tell me it's beautiful
or feed me lines about the sacred
juices of womanhood. I don't want to dance
in circles under the full moon, a slaughtered sow
worshipping her own meat.
You tell me the ghosts
of all the babies I will never have
must bleed out every month to remind me
of the primeval rhythm of flesh
reproducing flesh.
There is no need to remind me.
I am aware of this bloody cord
that stretches, twisting through the legs
of my mothers, tightening
in a knot around my uterus.
Don't tell me it's beautiful,
just give me some morphine.