I
Mr. Crone describes thick and thin blood.
My eyes roll back when I think
about what moves through me,
the map in me, whatever runs in those rivers.
Slow syrup or a bubbling waterfall
running from my heart.
When I fall, my head hits a desk,
leaves a gash. I dip my fingers
before heading to the nurse, show Mr. Crone.
Thin he answers.
II
What’s using a tampon like?
Erin says it’s like pulling your guts out by a string.
One tug and intestines fall into your palm,
bloody, brown, and pulsing
with your own life. Her long fingers curl
around the sweating Coke can and
I am afraid of those fingers,
the way she can pull
herself apart each month.
I am afraid of her fingers
finding the place where she starts.
Megan Mary Moore holds an MFA in Poetry from Miami University. Her first collection of poetry, Dwellers, is forthcoming from Unsolicited Press. You can learn more about her poetry at meganmarymoore.com.