The damp rust-colored spot like a dry lily
on the pink underwear, the ache in her
middle, the smell of wet cement or leaves
decaying. Her best friend has a paper bag
hidden in her locker, sealed with 20 staples
at the folded top. In the semi-privacy
of the “Hiny-Hider” stall, the bag
crackles, the noise echoing a primitive
call to attention. The staples stab
her fingers. She thinks of cancer’s sticky
tendons, unnamed illnesses like moving
shapes under a microscope. All are shades
of red; of this she is certain. Outside, the long-legged
girls lean against the monkey bars, pose adult,
snap gum with purpose. The boys play
football nearby, slamming shoulder into shoulder,
those dull blades, the movements like momentary
graffiti on their bodies. The blackbirds weave
a dream catcher above their heads. Inside,
she stares in the bathroom mirror, traces
her pink lips with crimson. Puckers. When she leaves
the school, the cold steals her breath,
dangles it briefly against the gray sky
like a paper doll in the wind. The blooming
ovaries contract, a tiny, hard whisper.
She feels altered, her legs spread apart
by the noisy bulk of the future.