The Calendar of Red

The month begins in silence
a blank sheet of white
men build towers of glass
their voices sealed in iron

Then comes the first rust
a door inside me creaks open
I leak centuries of women
told to cross their legs
to keep grief folded small

Patriarchy sits heavy
a paperweight on my womb
It says endurance is grace
pain is polite if hidden
beneath perfume and linen skirts

But I am a tide
each cycle an uprising
Blood runs not as shame
but as banner as ink
spelling refusal on the body’s wall

Mid month the egg gleams
hope or trickery
Men call it fragility
I call it furnace
that refuses to dim
even in chains

By the dark days
I am ash I am bone dust
yet from crimson smears
a whisper says you are not alone
Every cycle is chorus
a thousand muted mouths
spilling the same red alphabet

Still they name it dirt
still they worship
the clean marble of their order
ignoring the cathedral
my body builds and burns each month

Look closer
This blood is not burden
it is inheritance
it is protest
it is the secret script
their laws will never read
Look closer
This blood is not burden
it is inheritance
it is protest
it is the secret script
their laws will never read

I carry it each month
not as wound
but as warning
a clock that will not obey
their silence