Happy International Women’s Day! I spent the morning in training with some remarkable women learning about how to help students prepare presentations of learning. Then, I spent the afternoon with a female secondary student putting in the hard work to graduate this year despite the odds.
Now, I’ve decided to share a poem that I wrote about my menstrual cycle. I think this day should not only be about celebrating amazing women past and present, but also about de-stigmatizing the experiences of women, especially the ones that continue to be taboo. So many of the stereotypes about women come from these differences, and so, here is my honest look at ovulation.
Deovulation
I do not feel like producing an egg this month,
so, I do as Buddah,
meditate on my ovaries.
“The cycle can be broken”
becomes my mantra.
I replay it like a drum,
screaming it out loud in boutiques
and health food stores,
whichever works best.
I envision the mad cow of fertility,
and beg it to close it’s eyes,
and after all I’ve done for it
over the reproductive years,
sleep a cycle for me.
I cross my legs more frequently;
I don’t know why I do this.
I stand in front of microwaves
basking like a sun tanner
catching radiation at angles.
I spend shriveled hours
in sleepy time tubs,
whispering in futility,
“Sleep cervix, sleep.”
Near mid month,
when I feel the sharp pop
of the pinball in the
game over slot,
it’s a betrayal.
I scold my ovaries.
Stare them down
in full-length mirrors,
switch tactics,
exercise wildly,
lot’s of crunches
to will my tubes
into water slides,
coerce my cave of wonder
to “Open Sesame,”
so that my body’s unwanted thief
can pass through.
And when the cycle comes
full circle.
The egg has died.
A radiated, dehydrated victim
in my own personal nuclear fall out.
Expelled and deovulated.
© 2023 | K. Hartless
Cover Art: “…and you will be like God” Liz Darling, 2014
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