Period Poem

I. Fries

The boy with the white castle tattoo
above his dick, because sliders or sacks or what-all
were euphemisms for boning back at Queens High School
said he doesn’t “dip his fries in ketchup”
when I find rust condensing between
my thighs

II. Period

Of course I've got politics around it
because it's my rinse cycle
it's the body tidying up
no dirtier than moving last season's
sweaters out of the closet
as clean as anything that's never
been exposed
to the smoggy air or the daily grime
as ordinary as the planets moving
as living as flowers in a vase
as grand as learning your own name
as welcome as turning the lights out early

III. Mine

I visit the body each day the way I do the mailbox
I peer inside with my inner eye
Today a cramp inside me like I’m growing the first root from a seed
says, “if you ever loved me,
make me a goat rib steak, a spinach salad”
My cervix is low, closed, firm
as the tip of my nose
These are little notes from the crone in me
postmarked by the phase of the moon
saying here is your body
she's still here
waxing and waning and always here

IV. The Marble Floor

On a pile of white towels
she wants me to bleed
she wants to scare the maids
“they'll think I cut you up and ate you,”
she says, knuckles deep in me
like my pussy is a wedding cake
and it's the part where the lovers grab
handfuls of sweet and buttercream
to feed each other

Jocelyn Macdonald

Jocelyn Macdonald was born in rural Indiana to an evangelical Christian family. She has moved many times, but carries the smell of thunderstorms and the glow of fireflies with her everywhere. She wound up in Seattle so she could feel safe being herself, and now she is so good at it, she is herself wherever she goes. In her spare time, Jocelyn wrenches and rides an ’86 Honda Rebel 450.

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