Water

As my searing menstrual cramps rouse me at 2am for the third moon cycle in a row

--oh yeah, this is one of those poems--

I channel my inner yoga teacher and bring my attention to my breath.

But then I worry about my deviated septum

Or whatever that thing is,

That I inherited from my Dad,

Goddess bless him

That makes it so that I can only half breathe out of my nose.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

In through the mouth, out through the mouth

Will have to do,

It helps a little.

I think about becoming a doula

To fulfill my deep-seated urge to be a birthing partner if not a birthing person.

I wonder if there are menstruation doulas.

I think about how

--If I were a birthing person--

I'd tell myself to remember

All the women before me,

Millions upon millions

Across time and cultures

Who did this,

Hell or high water

So that I could lie here crying and staining

White sheets red,

Red sheets redder.

I'd picture them all

Propping me up

Feeding me ice chips

Singing me folk songs

Anything their mothers said makes it easier

We'll try anything once.

I'd wonder for the trans man

The one in the space between

Pausing in their chrysalis

Before their final form

To cash in this strange package

Mistakenly left on their doorstep

Perhaps among the first of their kind

Whose name would they call out

Across the ocean of time?

Whose hand will they hold at their bedside?

But I am set in my decision

Never to be a birthing person

Maybe someday a birthing partner

But then, who am I to help

Someone do something

Millions upon millions have done,

But not me?

I am the product of the millions,

Sent here in this body,

To prop them up,

Feed them ice chips

Sing them folk songs

Because the same things keep us up at night,

Across the ocean of time.

Originally written c. 2022