the red ribbon pact poem 1

i just wrote a whole long entry and my computer timed out
and it ended up erasing. so, in my mild frustruation, i'm just
going to repeat what's probably the most important part
anyway...

so my friend felisha and i made a pact a couple weeks ago.
we were having a conversation about how we regard menstruation
as a powerful moment in a woman's month, how it could really
a source of power for women if only they knew how to harness
it correctly, mostly by changing their attitudes towards it:
by viewing it as a celebration in the body
as opposed to a monthly nuisance.

in the same breath of the coversation, we were talking about
how we haven't been writing because our lives have been so
busy, yes that song. so i proposed the pact, which i now call
the red ribbon pact. i proposed that no matter what, we will
make sure that we write while on our periods. whether we've
been writing like madwomen that month or not writing at all,
we write during that time to see what flows (no pun intended).

she loved the idea and we smoked a blunt together to seal
the pact. can't prick fingers nowdays with that disease
ravaging through our blood.

i'm happy to say that i've had the first opportunity
to uphold my end of the pact since that monumental
conversation. so yes, that means that i am indeed
menstruating. heavily, too, thanks for asking.

so here are the first fruits of the red ribbon pact.


tonight we have flutes for bones; all night our bodies sing


how here have we arrived? yesterday
I was standing at the blunt edge of your machete
mind my body a armoire of borrowed blood

tell me if this will all taste good tomorrow:
the deviled eggs and the devilry in dawn,
your bright body against the summer-cold

mourning of night’s sweet lace tell me
to continue and I will continue to drag my half
clothed kiss all over the pot-holed village

of your face with a smile as wide as a boulevard
I will stay here for a slice of forever pie
and never evict the birds from my hair

so long as you never ask why the moon throbs
for fish like a grandmother’s salt-water
dreams, and this: why only martyrs cry

tears as thick as chutney and sweet just walk
with me down the mellifluous wail of these streets
just few more twirls slow on the backs of abused

ballrooms until the bandit moon says so long
as you never ask why your sleeping mouth
is the furnace I choose to warm my hands at night