Iron ore
It’s that time again.
My best friend says he
Smells the iron in the air.
That can’t be true.
But it is happening
All the same.
In a stall I sit
And sigh
’Til I finally squeeze
The plug inside,
Now just a string
Between my thighs.
When it’s time
To take it out,
I always wonder.
Will it scratch?
Or slide real smooth?
Sometimes it slips
Into the pot.
I’d rather flush than
Fish it out.
My dog mines the metal
From the crumpled mountain
In the bathroom can.
Every month I bleach
Pink polka dots,
Semi-permanent spots
On tired panties.