the sheets were my favorite-
egyptian cotton in burnt orange
and cream,
the last set of their kind, plucked
from the sale rack.
i would not find them again.
a stain would be irreperable.

in peeling back the thick skin of the quilt,
i found it-
the small coin of her blood,
quietly dried, and without scent.
directly in the middle,
sure to be seen by future lovers,
guests,
my own mother.
i would have to claim it as my own,
or destroy the sheets.

in that moment, i was suddenly very tired-
sighing with the constant ticking of her
endless rituals,,
staying in after dark,
untouchable wrists and feet,
the way she had quietly laid out an old towel the night before
to catch the plums that would fall from her in sleep.

when i am lying down,
i never bleed.
not once, in nine years,
have i found my own coins in the mornings. but,
she had shifted,
and slowly, seeped in//
she left me something deep and permanent,
as though to say, maybe for the first time in her life,
"i belong here."
and mean it.
a stain would be irrelevant.

when she saw
she was embarrassed,
almost to tears.
forgiveness was easy and instant.
i knew there would be no future lovers to explain to.
she suggested hydrogen peroxide/i gathered her in my arms

07/17/2005

Posted on 07/18/2005
Copyright © 2024 Brynn Dizack