the ghost-scar of a crescent is carved

on my belly:

white like the ancient arabian moon,

a wax seal fastening my fate.

but the menstrual blood was worse,

the shedding of lining every month

like snakes' skin in spring;

hormones waxing and waning with the moon

above the panopticon,

obscured with yellow fog.

polluted. cratered.

every month

the admonition that i am a Mother.

i am engineered,

a mode of capitalist production.

the blood is a haunting,

a promise:

to be woman is inevitable.

you do not kill me with violence

but with this pretense of peace.

i can bear any pain

as long as it has meaning,

but what i bear now:

all these social contracts

all these sons and daughters

all these scars

i contract and expel

but what do i produce?

tell me how any of this has meaning

tell me

please

i look to the moon for guidance

but she has passed over the skylight

and the guards have bolted the windows.