POEM A DAY – July 30

this sacred unmaking

knowing that there are limited moons left to pass through my womb, knowing there are limited lives gripping my ovaries, knowing there are limited deep-dark streaks on my underpants, knowing there are limited cottons to soak my mean reds, knowing that the sacred unmaking of this body from maker to mother to unmaker to crone is miracle-ing my body does not make the feeling it less painful, does not make the now-ing less intense… somewhere in the shedding of my power to make, another power pushes promises to the back of my throat, preparing to procreate another kind of birth.