My Big Bloody

There is an ancient form
of hollowness that emits
from humongous placements of foot-to-brow
and swishes in the evening light.
That pulsing, slimy thing you call a cunt or heart.
Well, it slips through every channel of the vein,
slippery, still pulsing in vain
to the rhythm of cracks in the vanity mirror
or estranged looking glass ahead.
Slips of danger pulled annulled
bright through the rupture of
beat sockets and frothy blood.
Drippings of the kill swoops longer still,
stagnant, collecting
in deep velvet pools of red or scarlet.
The blood has crystallized to frozen purple thighs.
It has enveloped the body
to thaw it and eat it for breakfast
like waffles or pancakes crusted with blood.
Not animal, wolf-eaten, dog-flea bitten, blood;
but crass, raw, sinewy, unfiltered menstrual blood
that comes only from a woman.
There is this ancient force
that tugs secretly
at the wall of my uterus,
to the fat red cysts clustered over ovaries,
never to budge.
So when it comes,
there are no walls or sheaths
to stop its arrival.