My Menstrual Cup Will Outlast Us All
Blood Cup
Shape of a shape, foldable up and able, in, to open out, stay put, collect, beyond my notice, riches I have no further use of. Latex or plastic echo of cervix, funnel without an exit; held up, a wine glass without a stem but with the wine-dark end of an egg within. Each month, washed, scalded clean, ready to capture the swell and wane of me. Ten years, one lasted, of stable yet suspect silicone, till I overboiled it— its modest, purposeful self safe on the shelf and in again, ad in— finitum, I’d thought, reminded only then that infinities, too, end.
Instructions for Escape
For everyone it will be different. Bend time to your will, bend your will to the bitter need. Bite down hard, tear through. So I’ve heard, another way is to cede: open your face upward, allow rain, bright light, too bright to see through but see through it, let it edge you into an expanse you hadn’t known and knew, even if rusty, even if ill at ease with ease, realizing, realized, there for the living. It’s yours. You’re its. Breathe.
