Everyone in me was a bird
those months I’d palm my belly
& hum down the lane,
but when they’d die, my uterus
would purge their blood

in clumps, brittle ribs and feet
filling the sad menstrual cup,
feathers smearing toilet paper

at night. Each month I assembled
bird scraps in jewelry boxes. Some

I buried in Witherle Woods,
some I burned in beach bonfires,
& others I dried on the deck

to build dream catchers with.
I’d beat all my wings to beckon

back birds each month, poised,
like you, to praise the cells
their triumphant flurry,

but then out would slip a broken beak,
a smear of brown-red feathers.

I Tell Anne Sexton about My Uterus by Darla Himeles

Photo used under CC.