Will anyone believe me when I say I smell menstrual blood
before it flows, promise of copper and earth, animal life
that dogs my footsteps, propels me into eros, errors of desire?
Or that love is like a wild carrot, stringed fingers seeking
dark water under sand by the roadside, feathered pollen
head with its one velvet eye an illusion of lace. Pull hard,
uproot and taste the fruit, small and sweet beneath a carapace
of wood. These days, my husband opens car doors for me,
moves to the outside of sidewalks, steers me by the elbow—
I don’t protest. Is this love, the way I want to cradle
my mother’s ancient head, tender and little between my
hands? Or how when inhaling a passing man’s scent—
citronella, crayons, Ivory Soap—I want to slide the length
and breadth of his arms beneath my palms, place my cheek against
his stranger’s chest, stretch my nostrils, burrow into muscle. Let
me lay my naked limbs down in soft grass, touch what walks
or crawls or remains still. Let the garter snake surprise me with
sun baked dryness, the moose roving the apple orchard in autumn,
calling for his mate, summon me with his terrible musk.
Let me do this before I die.