Rosie Copeland
Blossoming

I was witnessed amongst women:
in the shadows of my mother’s embarrassment
of women’s secret bodily processes
and the starlight of my own
jubilance and pride.  I was Venus –
the brightest star in the sky.  I was a daughter
of the Moon.

My sister, tasked with a mother’s duty
to enlighten me squirmed, wouldn’t meet
my gaze:  so, what do you want to know?
I hesitated.  This wasn’t how it was meant to be.

Yesterday I was a fawn, today a doe.
It was my Spring, my body held the promise
of new life.  Seeds/eggs indistinguishable,
equally fecund in this dream-like state.
I trembled with possibilities, examined my face
in the mirror – looked into my eyes.
Had I changed? I felt different.
Could anyone tell?

The bud, once planted had unfurled and blossomed
into Gaia’s natural processes:
First a shedding of light rain, then a downpour.
In my youth I could barely contain the welcomed leaking,
and unwelcomed weeping.

Euphemisms were plentiful,
the medical name rarely used,
yet we in the circle understood each other,
sympathised, supported. It was something
we shared.

Later there was disappointment, a decision
not to add the 2.4 to our lives via clinical means.
No family days for us basking in the sun like seals.
Eventually I became resigned to these Summer-less days
after much internal struggle and awkward fielding
of questions.

Now in the Autumn of my life
I have conquered the last stage of my womanhood
like a rose that has slowly shrivelled
and dried but still retains its pungent scent
and whose blush has merely deepened.