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