I revisit this poem from time to time. The first time I read it, I was still menstruating and I kind of smiled at it. But having reached menopause some years ago, this poem grows stronger for me each passing year. I think this is why we need poets to write about our own experiences. Otherwise we just miss their amazing perspective and reframing of our lives...
To my Last Period
well girl, goodbye,
after thirty-eight years
thirty-eight years and you
never arrived
splendid in your red dress
without trouble for me
somewhere, somehow
now it is done
and i feel just like
the grandmothers who, after the hussy has gone,
sit holding her photograph and sighing,
wasn't she beautiful?
wasn't she beautiful?
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