girl.

surely our mothers never bled.

they were soapy and clean,

bone-white nails, gold catching the early sun.

where would it go, salty dark and uncouth-

across our pretty, pale underwear

or on the back pocket between our uniform pleats?

surely khushi would get hers-

long hair slicked back with coconut oil.

we were only ten.

all girls school in the south.

we played sports, practiced piano,

inflected our questions like they meant something.

ms. monisha wouldn’t dress this cut but

we’d wince from the antiseptic.

white cotton versus the artery break,

damp rush against the thighs,

to catch it in our hands- strange muck

like berry jam or pickled beets-

before it stained , impossible thing.

bad blood, bad tongue, bad touch,

surely our mothers couldn’t know.

anyway, we’d roll our rs, and bite our lips.

V. W. V. W.

we’d cry from laughing and

write home that we were alright.