Shhhhh

Every month I reach for it, sometimes every other.

My preference may differ from another's,

It sits in its bag, pale pink and clean

Waiting for the week of red and cramps.

It lets me go to work or hike a mountain.

Lets little girls go to school to learn

To be pilots, electricians, doctors, teachers,

Artists or any other profession their hearts

May chase and yearn for.

It's safe and comfortable,

Not a bundle of rags

Or bed of straw to sit on and weep

For the shedding of blood each month

Forever till age collapses

My insides or complications force removal.

I cannot fathom what life would be

If this interruption were not contained

Or if its containment were much more tedious.

One cup, clean and perfect, for the day

Then washed for the night.

But what if I were without?

What if every month a week was lost to school

Or work. My job would collapse, my education vanish.

Yet I find myself whispering in secret

Of my cup. I bought it with eyes drifted from the cashier.

And we are taught this shame. To hide.

But my cup is freedom, opportunity.

It's a secret that opens the doors.

Stops the punishment of simply existing

With a functioning uterus

Because my blood brings others discomfort.

But my blood is healthy, normal,

It's proof of womb, and the womb borne you

And me into this world.

My cup is powerful, delightful,

Perhaps the most useful tool in the house.

It makes life keep on skipping, dancing.

I go shopping, browse the library, longue in a meadow,

I dine with friends and run with others,

My cup with me all the while.

And I never question my access to it,

Never question the variations before

Made of cotton or fabric

That made the fight for my rights attainable

Let the call of action pull women to march in streets

Fill the workspace and claim their seat at the table

Picket, speak out, raise their voice

Whenever they needed or wanted to.

It's simple really, what I take for granted.