“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,

hot, floating.