Red
 
At just thirteen 
reading Orwell in class
the girl does not want it,
does not expect it,
this red ribbon trickling
and staining the day.
Is it cancer
caught from her aunt?
She recalls the scar-
a crimson smile on a scalp.
 
In the shopping centre
there is a woman
in a cubicle
softly sobbing.
She is watching
a spittle of red
as it pools on white.
The sudden cramps
take her by surprise
scooping her hollow.
 
In the services
just off the M1
there is an advert
pinned to the toilet door.
Chestnut eyes
appeal for help
for the women from Ghana
with so little money
they use leaves
to stem the menstrual flow.
 
Alone in a kitchen
a menopausal woman
longs for the red
that bled with possibility.
The throb of her mood
consumes her
drying her womb
her bones
her origami skin
pale as the moon.

Kate Young
 
If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Kate Young would be pleased to hear them