somewhere, in rural asia (a menstrual hut as a birthday gift)

she wanted a wooden yo-yo as a gift, but she supposes this walk will make do.

 

foggy air, thick greenery, twigs crunching underneath the soles of her feet.

 

somewhere, an agonized animal lets her know she’s not alone.

 

she wonders how the arrow looks, encrusted in his furry torso,

 

if he is bleeding as heavily as her on her eleventh birthday,

 

her crimson rivulets a pathway to bitter womanhood, his to death.

 

or perhaps the wounded creature is female, and she is crying not for her suffering, but for her cub’s.

 

how quickly this maternalistic bond awaits the birthday girl, she does not know, nor does she want to, for it can’t be too much longer, now that she’s making that journey.

 

the five-day isolation, sordid proof of her impurity.

 

in her hands are clothes mama told her to burn, one of them being her favorite cotton sweater.

 

grandma had sewn it so lovingly, but she, too, wanted her to discard it.

 

the animal cries again, a broken, pitiful sound, yet it is only herself she feels sorry for, especially as she opens the door to her temporary home, with a bucket in the corner, and a bed with no sheets.

 

at least there is less to burn.

 

she wonders how many other girls—women—sat in this hut and felt like solitude was a worse pain to bear.

 

perhaps she is too different; no one else feels melancholic, only appropriately shameful.

 

the room is too cold, so she pulls on her ill-fated cotton sweater, wonders how many walks are left, and once again wishes she was gifted a wooden yo-yo instead.