“Blooding” by Leesa Cross-Smith
Angie and I met at the vending machine;
I bought an Ale-8. “It means ‘a late one,’ get it? Ale-8-1?”
I opened up to her and Jesus like that flower-tea that blooms in water.
Slow, wide (take it easy.)
Four church camp summers lost
talking shit, wiping sweat from behind our knees.
Years later –
pregnant, bleeding in the mall bathroom.
It took me four weeks to miscarry naturally.
Mis carry. Mi scarry.
Our bloody almost, coming out of me.
The first blood was pink-brown-red and it reminded me of Angie’s freckles;
a thin comfort I slipped into the slit of my heart
when I was alone,