Today’s choice
Previous poems
Anyonita Green
Examining clots
It wobbles slightly, red wine jelly.
I peer at it, nose close enough
to smell the iron, the scent of coagulant,
inhaling through slightly parted lips
I imagine I can taste it, how
everything tasted metallic, like monkey
bar poles in those sweaty days of childhood,
of playgrounds, skimming stones
on the river in the gulley, our shoes caked
with Carolina red clay. There is a whole world
inside this clot — corridors and alleys
veins and cells and the unfertilised would-be
baby. My ovaries contract/release violently,
pumping out eggs, my uterus doing the work
(languidly) of nest-building, this empty red room
forced out. No baby. No walls. My panties
fill with blood. In bed, period dreams cause night
sweats, cramps demand the soothing balm
of a hot water bottle and I vacillate between
being in awe at the beautiful ruby waste
my body creates and angry that I must feel
this monthly until, without warning, my body
decides she is done making the nest, done
holding out hope for a small-faced baby, for
a man to lay and create life with.
Anyonita Green is an American immigrant living in Manchester, England. She has an MA in Poetry from MMU and enjoys writing confessional poetry and essays. Her work has appeared in Rainy City Stories and Propel. She can be found on Instagram @anyonita
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