Period, o period, wherefore art thou?
Twenty-eight days come and go and I wait,
knowing you'll show up, perhaps one day late
and now and then maybe another day too
but this time, this month, when I'm waiting for you
with more worry and hope than is normal for me
(though 'normal' does not fit me accurately)
you choose, of all months, to make this when you're late
by three, maybe four days, and now what I hate
is the hope that you're slowly unwinding in me.
Why can't you get this thing over with? Free
me from sitting each day at my desk, thinking why
do I feel that twinge, could that be a sign?
I've heard of those women, who tried for long years,
whose anger and hope mixed with bitter, hot tears
then peed on a stick one day hoping to find
the two little lines they had seen in their minds
and like stars in the night there they were on that white,
clean, bare background. I think, Will that be me tonight?
Prob'ly not. You're quite cruel. You'll undoubtedly show
late today when I've finally bought just one test more,
'just one time,' I will say, like an addict who means
just this time, just this once, and I'll walk away clean.
So I sit, and I wait, and I blog, and I hope
that this day will bring you, or two lines, but nope
nothing yet, neither one. 'To the bathroom!' I say
as if underwear-watching could keep you at bay
as if I could, by force of will, stop you now
when nothing else has, no one seems to know how.
Just hurry up fool, this time I'm not dreading
your latest appearance. In fact, I'm quite ready.
I've got all the drugs, and the money, the plan
the shots and the pamphlets, the miracle man
we're going to beat you, we know how to win
but you have to show up for this all to begin.
For three years I've tried to scare you into fleeing,
and now that you're missing, you're all that I need.
Take pity on me. It's time to move on.
You've had all your fun. You've hurt me enough.
You've shown up at the most inopportune times,
you've teased me and hurt me. It should be a crime.
Can you sue your own body for malpractice? Well,
I would if I could, for my own private hell
but all I want now is that thing that I tried
to get rid of, to conquer, to leave well behind.
Let's just go, I say like an impatient child
like I used to when things didn't happen on time.
Hurry up, I would say, when others were slow.
I've never been especially serene. I know.
"Hope springs eternal!" is a line that I can
now know for sure was penned by a man.
Though beautiful, it's abused in ways myriad:
At least, don't say it to a woman awaiting her period.