I

Mr. Crone describes thick and thin blood.
My eyes roll back when I think 
about what moves through me,
the map in me, whatever runs in those rivers.
Slow syrup or a bubbling waterfall 
running from my heart.
When I fall, my head hits a desk, 
leaves a gash. I dip my fingers 
before heading to the nurse, show Mr. Crone.
Thin he answers.

II

What’s using a tampon like? 
Erin says it’s like pulling your guts out by a string. 
One tug and intestines fall into your palm, 
bloody, brown, and pulsing 
with your own life. Her long fingers curl 
around the sweating Coke can and
I am afraid of those fingers, 
the way she can pull 
herself apart each month. 
I am afraid of her fingers 
finding the place where she starts.

Megan Mary Moore holds an MFA in Poetry from Miami University. Her first collection of poetry, Dwellers, is forthcoming from Unsolicited Press. You can learn more about her poetry at meganmarymoore.com.