It’s not beautiful, not the way roses are,
but pretty like a morning glory in its ever-present
pettiness. You can call it the gift of life;
I call it the vice of bindweed,
blooming from below the belt
in invisible rage, hidden
under unknowing white dresses
until it isn’t.
We’ve been called weak,
but men on screen (so-called heroically)
cut the palms of their hands to make an oath
and I ask, why not use our blood — these weeds
that keep growing between our legs every month?
(Yes, I know I said I’d stop comparing my body to weeds.)
I don’t want to be a mom, you can have it,
I swear. I keep it stashed in a bottle of ibuprofen,
in cotton cattails floating along a red river,
in cups too sacred and too dirty to drink from.
Take it like it took all my white dresses.
Written by: Kendra Nuttall
Bio: Kendra Nuttall is a copywriter by day and poet by night. Her work has appeared in Spectrum, Capsule Stories, Chiron Review, among various other journals and anthologies. She is the author of A Statistical Study of Randomness (Finishing Line Press, 2021). She lives in Utah, USA with her husband and poodle.