blood oranges

these virginal muscles

sore and vulnerable

are like the rugged rind

of firm, acrid fruit

broken into,

the round, wet pulp

still breathing in its skin,

sharp unseen pains

like pointed seeds pushed aside

by practiced hands.

* * *

‘Am I bleeding?’ I ask.

No, she says,

you are not

bleeding.

Today, she is my mother

and I am expecting her

to deliver me

again.

Please, I pray silently,

give me the privilege

of a woman’s body,

so that I may appreciate

what others have given me

and what I can no longer receive.

* * *


She tells me to eat meat,

red meat,

rare meat,

meat with the blood still in it.

Live meat

with a face

a texture

to be held between the gums

and squeezed still with life.

Beef steaks,

hamburgers,

calf’s liver,

pot roasts

and stews.

But I prefer,

the beet’s dark juices,

the apples with red skins,

warm freckled strawberries,

and the blushing burgundy oranges

thick with flesh,

and so like blood,

I will trick my body

into bleeding.

* * *

A Woman’s Hands

My body has been explored by women,

before it has been explored by men.

It has not been explored by men,

but it will be, as it must be

I am told.

I am told that a woman’s body

can not be explored

by a woman,

that you cannot force

the puzzles pieces

that do not fit.

I have cut my conscience

reduced my body

trimmed my mind

to fit

where nature would have me:

An odd piece

for display

Thin and curved

holes in each side

waiting to be filled.

2


I am afraid.

She stays

so long

her fingers

have left their mark,

the way breath blackens

the walls of a cave

and the slighest

touch

disintegrates

the most stoic

of structures.

3

One palm

on my belly

kneading me

like fresh dough

unrisen

one palm

blinded by

the hollow

my mother

taught me to make

by folding the dough

inside of itself

blending the flour yeast

and eggs

into one warm

uniform mass

to be set aside

and allowed to rise.

* * *
 

This body

is less infinite,

collapsible

shrunken

after its frontiers

have been explored

and forgotten.

the cervix

the uterus

the ovaries

foreign worlds

where wars have been fought

their casualties

less intimate

than the deaths

read about in the papers

and seen on t.v.-

Here, blood is not spilled

breath is not silenced

land is not taken away.

This body

is as a country of natives

who can no longer go home,

yearning

to bleed

to breathe

to claim itself

anew


5

cervix

It does not lead

to the heartland

the center

the hollow

the quicksand

the ultimate depth

the strength I have left.

It is only the

beginning

the brink

the edge

the march

the boundary

the ledge

the fringe

the extremity

the fear

the border

I surrender

to search the new frontier.
 

 
(The above poem was written several years ago, after my first gynecological exam, which was traumatic for me.  I had not had my menstrual cycle for a year, and the doctor instructed me to eat meat and rest. After I moved back to Texas (from New York City), my cycle returned like clockwork.  I will never forget that. EDM)