Mourning After
Normally I get a gentle greeting
sticky sap & spotting coaxing me to rest
but the morning after
the Atlanta gunman murdered my sisters,
my cycle came early
bright, viscous blood painted the toilet bowl
with a furious vengeance, thick grief
of ancestral ache
layered onto my womb
over lifetimes
The morning after,
the media seized my friends—
the same institution who shields stories of whiteness
invaded our sacred space
to hurry mourning
how dare they
ask us to process our pain for them?
how dare they
demand help with work they should have
been doing over centuries?
The morning after,
my ex texted me—
the one I closed the door on
because Asian women
were telling me things he was saying
to Asian women
I was furious
at the invitation to find comfort in him
I was furious
at the rich man who came twice
and left me empty
who smiled as he told me he took
an Asian woman's virginity once
I feel my insides slide out of me
and all I can do is listen
to my womb, terrorized
with rage, bleeding out
the morning after they did
without warning, knowing
the sameness
of our blood
