When procrastinating important deadlines I'll often go on a Google binge until I've read the entire internet. Usually its an image search for things like "Aviva Yael pretty" or "how much longer til no more Kid Rock" but those bore quickly. More often than not I go on a Wikipedia tear and let the links take me to places I've never been so I can learn things that are 25% inaccurate. This can go on for hours.
Today is one such day. After unpacking thirteen THIRTEEN boxes of books (just moved) I thought maybe reading a little poetry could put me in a good mood. Today's search term was "menopausal poetry." I've edited down my favorite excerpts from the following poem for your reading pleasure, especially you Ted Barrow. Enjoy.
Cross Currents by Marge Piercy
Menopause. A word used as an insult.
a menopausal woman, mind or poem
as if not to leak regularly or on the caprice
of the moon, the collision of egg and sperm,
were the curse we first learned to call that blood.
I have twisted myself to praise that bright splash.
When my womb opens its lips on the full
or dark of the moon, that connection
aligns me as it does the sea. I quiver,
a compass needle thrilling with magnetism.
I have felt that wetness and wanted to strangle
my womb like a mouse. Sometimes it feels cosmic
and sometimes it feels like mud. I have prayed
to my blood on my knees in toilet stalls
simply to show its rainbow of deliverance.
Today supine, groaning with demon crab claws
gouging my belly, I tell you I will secretly dance
and pour out a cup of wine on the earth
when time stops that leak permanently;
I will burn my last tampons as votive candles.