PMS

The curse
My “little friend”
My “ladies’ days.”

Once a month
and then
it starts all over again.

Oh woa is me a woman wanton
to end this grief
when blood will cease.

Hormones raging
gut exploding
doubled-over blind
when oh when will life be mine?

Sadly disheartened,
it happened again,
my little, ugly friend.

It grips my torso
and wrenches it through
with stains of courage
and promises untrue.

It’s power unyielding,
to my lover’s call.

Though monthly dues
are paid in full,
For rights of womanhood
won soft and won true.

For duty served in fear of others,
for grief and pain
and sorrows paid in full.

For truth unfolding
to those who have yet to learn,
of feminine destiny
and powers unearned.

Its need unmet,
sealed in a bloody curse.
To reason and scold,
behind the widow’s hearse.

In service of others,
to lead from behind.
Sealed in a bottle
of memory and mind.

The prize remains elusive,
to one who holds it dear.
Refusing to give up the grudge,
life held back in fear.

Batons furl overhead,
claiming the unnamed dead.
Of high treason and truth
of allegiances with proof.

Rationing out in proportion
the lies and cheats
and little deceits
along with all the distortion.

Of masculinity done wrong.
of simple illusion,
and numbers held strong.

For womanhood
and its aftermath
holding fast
in truth and light.

The challenge of what’s not been said,
about the rightness of might,
and its true cost
to the feminine lost.