Tampon

White and pristine
like a pair of freshly
washed sheets. Shoved
up a body to collect
the only blood not born
out of violence. Sticky
cherry syrup,
pulled out like a bundle
of mucus, now soaked
in a clucky dark red
like the slimy bits of fish
grandma would cut up
and douse in red wine
for Friday’s dinner during
Lent. Slices of oranges that
turned feverish from
the Christmas day sangria.
Or the color of my mother’s
fingers after removing the
pomegranate seeds and feeding
them to me. Some days the red
was closer to black –
slithering like a garden snake in the
toilet bowl – like the first time
in 7th grade, I was at a pool party
and went to the bathroom to find
a bundle of blackberry molasses
teeming in my bikini bottoms, a single
tampon soon to collect clumps
of dripping blood, once white and
pristine, now bleeding
like a living being.

Sophia Ivey recently graduated from Florida State University with a Bachelors of Arts in English Literature, Media, and Culture. She has been writing poetry for about four years now and has had work featured in The Rising Phoenix Review, Outrageous Fortune, and The Oakland Arts Review. When she isn’t writing or working, she enjoys baking, reading, and doing arts and crafts.