Girl Blood Ritual One

          In kindergarten, I find myself

                      sitting cross-legged on the playground,

                                  having a nosebleed. Steady,

                                              like a saline drip, across my lip,

                                              into my mouth, down my chin,

                                  through my fingers then blooming in

                      a constellation of tiny red supernovas

          across my leg warmers and the mulch.

          I tip my head back, mouth-breathe,

both bloodied palms open to the girls

as they gather, curious protectors,

          shoulder-to-shoulder circling me

                      with solemn heads bowed

                                  over mine, angling for the best view.

                                              They read the blood-spattered wood chips:

                                              someone says the shapes look like a face, mine.

                                                          I say yes, that is me, this is what I am

                                                          made of. Now you all know me.

                                              Behold, this wounded creature, warning:

                                  you too could be bloody nosed in the dirt.

                      See yourself in me, see how we all

          can bleed ourselves out with no warning.