The calendar turns its page, or doesn't turn at all, A date circled in dread, then waiting for the fall. The body’s quiet, cruel mistake begins to brew, When the sign arrives too late, too early, or in twos. It begins not with a spill of red, But a whisper in the hormonal head. The swift, bright hope, it starts to fade, A silent promise, silently betrayed. The tender breasts, a bruised, tight pain, A weary, migraine drilling through the brain. The bloating tide that swells the gut, Leaving the soul feeling firmly shut. Then the crimson confirmation comes, A surrender beaten out on drums. It’s not just blood, it’s a ticking clock, A brutal, yearly, ten-month knock— Or worse, a frantic, two-week, rapid chime, That steals the peace and every piece of time. It says, Not this time, Try again, my dear, A bitter tax paid twice a year. This is the Rhythm of the No. The backache deep, a pulling, constant strain, The dull, persistent fog that haunts the brain. Sweet cravings strike, a sudden, frantic need, While skin breaks out, and the body takes its lead. The cramping gut, that tightening vice on high, While legs seize up in sharp, electric pain, And every hope is washed out by the rain. It is the raw, unspeakable grief, The memory sharp, though mercifully brief, Of babies held in dreams alone, The miscarriage marked by marrow and bone. This is no simple, cleansing flow, The week of bleeding is a lie. It is a lifetime in a week. Then the crimson confirmation comes, A surrender beaten out on drums. It’s not just blood, it’s a ticking clock, A brutal, yearly, ten-month knock— Or worse, a frantic, two-week, rapid chime, That steals the peace and every piece of time. It says, Not this time, Try again, my dear, A bitter tax paid twice a year. This is the Rhythm of the No. A truth that settles deep and cold, This is the story we are told, The gentle strength we have to seek, To rise again and wipe the stain, And stand beneath the sun and rain, And wait another month—and see What the next cycle brings to be. The Rhythm of the No.
