endometrium ovenbird I will miss this when it’s gone, this flood, this blood borne transformation, this shedding of clotted memory. I could sedate it with copper and pills, but this is part of my body’s wilderness: a viscous voice (seasonal, cyclical), a creek bed fed by living tributaries, an ecosystem moving through patterns of growth and decay. It comes with its storms: lightning in the head, tectonic pressure building, my body mined of its iron ore and left depleted. But to be without this moonlit mystery will be to see myself clear cut, everything ground down to a barren symmetry. I’ve come to know the pattern of my own strange tides and I’m not ready to stand on the shore and see that the water has receded too far for me to wash myself clean. 260712 what's it to you? who go blather from