Bloom

Spilled wine on a white table cloth,
the heat of embarrassment on a woman's cheek,
the rose of a sunset as it disappears beyond the horizon.
These are the shades of red I've known.

I thought I knew the contours of red,
had felt all the sweetness of the berry,
the salty tang of my own blood,
known the passion of rose,
the warm depths of a woman's body,

but in the mysterious depths of a toilet bowl
I've discovered a new shade.
There is no paint, no crayon,
that paints the aching shade
of blood in the chilled water
of a porcelain bowl.

As my daughter blushes through the burn
of incision, pain pills, and fear
her bare bottom perched atop the toilet
I see her blood mix with the water below.

My body trembles with the sight of it
the slow flowering of blood
flowering through the water
like the opening of a bloom.

She cries and holds her belly.
Done, she asks to be wiped
and I fold the tender fiber of paper
into four equal squares
and gently clean her.

I drop the tainted paper into the bowl
the force sends the blood curling anew.
Wispy tendrils reach and expand
to the out limits of the bowl.

I flush the toilet before I lift my daughter
hoping to hide the sight from her,
but she's seen the blood
and is curious about what it means.

I fumble for the flush,
depress it,
watch the smooth blush slide
of blood in a drain
and catch a glimpse
of time sliding away from me
in a pull like gravity.