The day after the scalpel was pulled,
I dropped clots the size of Nebraska.
Several shades of red on toilet paper and cotton
I tried to wipe it away,
but the stain hovered and lingered
as a murder of crows do at dusk.
With this, there is pain and there is tarry and worry.
My macramé brain, swarming with holes
where stitches were dropped.
Heart tacked together with whispers on the wind
where you are a lost suggestion.
Swallowing words into the pit of my stomach,
they taste of blood and bullets – tangy and metallic.
I am sick from the taste and sight of blood;
from the freckles of warmth gushing between my legs –
it’s waxy patina, shining like Strawberry Fields
but joyless as an empty glass of whiskey.
What is this faint leaking,
so public and sudden
like an unexpected freight train?