I was so many days late, I wondered
if this was the last & mourned that sticky red
gumming my fingertips (yes, I touched
it – all of us bleeders stuck our fingers
into that overripe slick more often
than most think appropriate, lifted
the satin stain to our noses) to salivate
at the copper smell: so like damp lava
& rain-soaked ash, so like time harbored
in the deepest part of the body.

I used to catch the first day’s rivulets
in a jar with spring water, ooze diluted
but not the gleaming, to pour the whole
potion onto the earth. She’d soak it up
(yes, she), ropey ruddy strands heavy
on the dirt because life is thicker
than water. She swallowed slow
but completely—soil remembers
what it needs in order to keep giving.
Every blooming offering more:
food, medicine, air. & us, thankless
as teenagers who haven’t yet bent
waist-over, cramping with bestowal.

Soon enough, the nutrient drain
of my flesh will spigot off. No more,
this nest of my tissue yielding:
Latch on, here, there is plenty to sustain you.

Soon enough, there will be nothing
for the Earth & I to do but take.
 

—Lisbeth White

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