birth control

Just the mini pill, over the counter,
available on Amazon—
for the four days leading up
to my period, which
of course I track religiously.

I bow on one knee
to the highest order:
the Sacred Temple
of Our Lady Who Bleeds.

It seems to ease the pain,
shrink the clots.
I even dare say
I can bear it—
but only for those four days.
I’m scared to take hormones
every day.

I fear hormones,
or anything prescribed.
Maybe it’s that they come
from a doctor—
like all the doctors who cut,
who sliced,
who prescribed away
my first husband
on grounds they’d save his life.
He died before forty.
He died the age I am now.

And the birth control pill
still scares me—
as if the chemicals
in my bloodstream
might overpower my brain,
let my personality slip.

I was on an antidepressant
from puberty to last year.
Now I know who I am
without a doctor’s hand
in my head.

Funny—
I didn’t have a period
from fourteen to twenty-two.
Because of a shot—
given in the butt,
four times a year,
administered by a man
in a white coat.

Ten minutes earlier,
he’d had his fingers in me,
while a nurse stood by,
eyes averted.
It’s okay. That’s the law.
A woman always has to watch.
It’s for my safety.
Oh no—
it’s for his.

She’s there to make sure
I don’t become
Little Miss Lawsuit.
Like snakes—
“he’s more scared of you
than you are of him.”

He’s a little right to fear me.
After all, I divorced
that first husband
in a court of law.