by Lauren Milici
I bleed for the first time in two years. I tell everyone. Someone close to me says, wow, it’s like
you’re a real woman again. Amenorrhea means no children, or children if you’re lucky. The
Latin translates to no moon. I am a moonless woman. The Pollock painting does not depict me.
Often, I think of the infertile wife & the husband who leaves her. How nobody wants to admit
they’ve been left. But I’m a real woman now. Someone will keep me. Someone will look past the
other things. The insomnia. The compulsion to pick holes in freshly healed skin. I can cook, too.
I can clean. I can read to kids at night, even if they aren’t mine.