PERIOD. 

Note: In India, women were restricted from contact with others and from performing tasks during the week they had their period due to their “uncleanliness.” 

the first time she watched blood 

pool on the bathroom floor, 

her mother makes a spoon of palms 

and carves out a “how-to” map.

her words trickle like 

autumn, coloring her tongue a soft orange

to make up for meters of space between them. 

she squeezes warnings together with shaking hands. 

nurses her breath to its constant. 

walks with a purpose she doesn’t know while 

averting her eyes and locking gaze with wooded panels. 

covered in layers of grime and guilt. 

before passing over this sin-saken stage, 

mother tells her there are 

rules to follow. 

“don’t poison the men with your gaze.” 

“don’t pray outside the discomfort of your prison.” 

“don’t touch the Holy Book” 

(the very same that seizes autonomy). 

“marinate in the darkness of your womanhood; think about what you’ve done.” her hair is pulled back with 

plastic wrapped hands and 

enough powder to color her 

scared white. 

she trails behind with 

hallowed hands, 

1

watches her life performed by a sterile actor 

as she dances lifelessly in time from the shadows. 

----------- 

but the first time I watch blood pool on 

the bathroom floor, 

my mother closes the gap. 

her arms wrap around my middle. 

her fingers swipe at my glistening cheeks. 

in her left hand is a hammer, 

ready to appease my itch to hurt the world that had hurt me. in her right is a bottle of glue, 

prepared to piece together my broken fragments once again. 

covered in layers of pride and promise. 

“period” isn’t a word pressed to the ears, suctioned from the air. period feels less like a halt and more like a 

pause, a comma followed by a world that 

doesn’t stop spinning. 

instead, my arms still spring with flowers. 

my hair still whips with oceanic breeze. 

my body can make mountains move, tides pull, tectonic plates shift. and I bleed 

without violence.