he came for tender clover, nibbled
   with his chisel teeth. we called him
Harvey (like the film, and
when we told our friends, they thought he wasn't real),
or sometimes
  Woundwort-rah, for when he
came beyond our fence
  our cats would hide and shiver.

i watched him lope,
    moonlight white
   among the blustered flower heads
     cheeks pouching in and out

and then
  inside
    a sliver smaller than a dot.
     wound
down and round my
   girlish maze,
       dropped and drew a
flood to dye
  my cotton gusset red.

Eostre's gift, my mother said,
   eyes wet the way they went the
day i left for school,
  a seedling grown to seed.     

     the cramps, the hot
discomfort of the wad
  between my thighs
    are distant in my mind,
but feel:
  the fur is pale, the weeds are green, as
      vivid as my bleed.