On Poems about Menstruation (07/07/2005)

Brother-poets, we are all eunuchs now. In having something, we have nothing because our sex is too external there is no mystery inside us it seems. We cannot partake in the sacred monthly rite and therefore the gods of poetry spurn us: we never can be fecund now it seems. But sister-poets, when I see a blood-red bus split open and bloody men and bloody women weeping – all blood, all life, all death comes from inside it seems.

 

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