Menstrual Sonnet, Part 1
I love it when a woman, monthly, bleeds.
There is a fullness and fecundity
which breathes from every pore and then proceeds
to bathe me with her moist profundity.
Menstruation’s nature’s streaming cadence
cascading through her body’s temple space.
Righteous men will welcome this – her fragrance –
as proof of wombful cyclic hypergrace.
But yet, to this phenomenon I’ve found
a stigma is attached. It’s called “The Curse”.
Schoolboys speak of “jam rags” in the playground
while female attributes are shamed, or worse.
Is blood taboo, like feeding from the breast
in public? Woman’s depth once more suppressed.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
The Naked Troubadour 