Turning The Tap On

By Daisy Watson Shaw

Today, when my co-worker asked if I had a spare sanitary pad

I held my bag open for her so she could swiftly – discreetly – take it without it being spotted. 

Like teenagers passing secret notes in class

Like you try to quickly wipe a wine stain before it takes, before it soaks…

She asked if I was sure, did I need it. I shook my head and said no, don’t worry

I am late and I don’t know how I feel about it.

When will she be old enough to be sold for marriage? When she starts her period.

In the toilets at school, I cried at the shock of it. And ultimately, luck

predestined it meant nothing more to me at that age 

than needing to be more organised in packing my rucksack.

What, from their long list, do they choose to pray to their god about?

Now, I am late and I don’t know how to feel about it

My friend had a miscarriage in the public bathroom of a shopping centre

another gave birth to her baby weeks too early.

When she called, her voice sounded weak and broken

She’s here, she’s safe, she’s perfect

I exhaled and cried at the realisation that, sometimes, life can be a near miss.

I am still late and I don’t know how to feel about it

My mother hasn’t bled for a while. She says she doesn’t know how she feels about it. 

She says she seems invisible now, yet I spent so much of Friday

thinking about how our hearts would have once beat in sync together

How I would’ve felt her before I ever saw her

How she set the lady, preaching and shaming outside the church, straight –

I am late, she is the first person I talk to about it.

Someone told me the story of a young girl who bled out into buckets, while they asked

What will you do to make sure this doesn’t happen again? 

I want to ask them

Have you ever turned the tap on, only for blood to rush through the pipes?

Those on the other side of the gatepost, who will never know how it felt

to still carry that bumblebee to pollen on that sad March morning.

I am late and I don’t know what to do about it.

There are women in a land not so far away, despairing

They were late and I can’t imagine how they feel about it

They are softness, salt. Sweet red velvet

stroked in the wrong direction…

There are women in a land not so far away, despairing

Meanwhile I have started bleeding, and I don’t know how I should feel about it.