I am in the bathroom,
looking down at the sanitary towel suspended
between my knees. I see a clot, curled blood-fox,
on a cot of coppery snow. This is blood sport.
Every month I give birth to infinite timelines,
alternatives, dimensions. My insides pulse
with the parting and my womb
is a room no longer on the blueprints:
shut up, sealed, its doors covered with wallpaper.
I stand and wipe the reddish-gold
imprints from the white toilet seat. There are two wings
left by my thighs, splayed like a kill in winter.
There is a flush, a clang of the pedal bin.
BEX HAINSWORTH is a poet and teacher based in Leicester. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Coachella Review, Ethel Zine, Atrium, Okay Donkey, and trampset. Her debut pamphlet will be published by Black Cat Poetry Press in 2023.