"Pensieri notturni" by Angelo Mazzolen

The wickedness of women's
gore, Pliny said, even fire
could not conquer. Twelve

and abashed, this spotting, thrown
into the bottom of the wicker
laundry for mother to find, an unspoken

box of Kotex left on my bed, which
I cached until the next time, limp
on Midol, praying to the Goddess

of Blood and Tears to please
make it stop, this pain and flex, this thrusting
jostle, this shove. Oh, I want her

to know, 12 and timorous, that this odor,
this marigold, does not cause wine to sour,
buds to wither, plants to parch, fruit

to fall. In fear of crippling their strength
in battle, these puissant menses
kept Lakota women hidden

from warriors, kept them
knitting breath from
their blood.

Bio: Meg Rains lives in Arkansas and is currently working towards an MFA in creative writing from Vermont College. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in "A Room Of One's Own," "Poetry East," "Snake Nation Review," and "The Worcester Review."

Contact Meg Rains at gemellen@hotmail.com