MENOPHOBIA
a young crocus
with her prudish umber glossa
she must be too shy, reticent to let go
of the obscurity that she holds
deep in the narrow neck's passage
soft skin, split skin, rupture skin, sheds
she wakes up in the middle of night,
the carmine leaving the bed of pear
between her legs, moans in fear
the grotesque stains that won't leave
her rough cotton linen
verbena scent, citrus acids, acrid, sacred
smear here, smudge there, stop it
scrub it, scrub it, get it off, stop it
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