*CONTENT WARNING! The subject matter of this poem is about tampons.*
I Was Never Afraid of the Tampon
I remember me and my best girlfriends
huddled in the pink-tiled bathroom
the rusting tub as witness
squat-standing, legs open like
o’s, arm swooped, hand gripping
the plastic applicator shiny with vaseline
– vagina somewhere in the arch of
shadows between my trembling thighs
the squeal-heaving sensation of
sharp purple teeth against lips
loaded with fear, it’s true, sometimes
the triangle mouth of the tip of the
applicator was weaponry: I soldiered
onward, advancing into the pink
trench, honouring the danger
the slick-slip up, up, up, the snap-
click of release, the insertion complete
the subtle removal, white string hanging
like the torn strip of a surrender flag
then the moment of silence, the tug
at the back of my throat, waiting for
indication of sensation that this foreign
object was inside me, blood collecting
modern obelisk pillar-ing the centre
of my virgin canal – then cheering!
then jumping! Then ‘that didn’t even
hurt!’ then washing my hands with
softsoap my mother stole from the
dental office she worked in, then
‘who’s next?’ I remember so vividly
this vulvic right of passage: young
women huddled in pinks
VANESSA SHIELDS 