JOANN MCCAIG
The thing is, I didn’t even know it was the last bleed. My body did though, made it splendid, celebratory, a Lucille Clifton poem: “Well so long, girl—” And it was beautiful: hot cramp twisting in my low back, a familiar muscular caress. Dark rich clots at first, a crimson so deep it looked black. And then a gush, a fiery orange gush, a rich bright swirl that mesmerized me as I stood, hand poised to flush. A bright fluid mandala that filled me with pride, made me think of Dabstract, those paint spatter canvases we used to make at the Stampede when I was kid. I wish I could have saved my last blood, carried it home in a cardboard frame, like a Dabstract. Displayed it on the dresser. I made this.
I loved it. I loved my last blood without knowing why.