Free
People smell the first woman of this poem.
She free bleeds
and reads her period stains
like tea leaves.
She hopes to see a palm tree.
Today’s blood looks like an owl,
with inky wings.
She worries about her mind.
This is an omen.
People smell the second woman.
She free bleeds.
She lives on the streets and
can’t afford amenities
to take care of her femininity.
Today’s blood looks
warmer than her body.
She worries about her mind.
This is an omen.
People smell the third woman.
She free bleeds,
accidentally.
All down her stretchy jeans.
She hasn’t been bloody
in months- about three.
Today’s blood looks like
life and death, simultaneously.
She worries about her mind.
This is an omen.
And all these women
bleed
and that’s what makes them united.