when i don't practice feminine hygiene
copyright Arjuna Greist 2003
a red rorschach grows between my thighs
and you might see dirty pictures
but i see goddesses dancing in the sky
bloodclots like sunspots, like little pink soaps in the palms of their hands
a psalm to the ladylike cleanliness of it all
perfumed and shaven and padded and plugged
drugged with smooth shiny happy white pills
but they know what's really in their hands
they stop the music, they stop the band, and demand to know
who the hell are you to define for me the meaning of femininity?
cuz all of my y-fronts from froot of the loom
are stained with the richness from the fruit of my womb
every month it pours out, and i've seen the commercials
makes my goddesses shout, "hey, this stuff isn't blue"
why can't piss be yellow? why can't blood be red?
why is it unfeminine to have hair on your legs? or none on your head
so it doesn't get in the way while you're making love or saving the day
don't tell me to imitate a little girl
curl my hair up with spray
hide my wetness away in a purple plastic sanitary self-sealing bag
let me tell you my feminine needs
cuz napkins can't wipe up everything that i bleed
they don't make a maxi with wings that can fly
or a super-absorbant to soak up the rain
or the pain from cramps
or break-ups, or shake-ups
only i can do that
finger-painting hot suns with the stuff of myself
let it drip down my legs like ice cream or wax
relax into reddish-brown spot-covered sheets
and dream of my goddesses
stinking of sex and tears and sweat
with hairy pits and muddy feet
the models of feminine, womanly clean