same home, different worlds

by g.a.costa

In the sacred home of every woman, every girl, the paper flesh breaks down, strip by strip, it separates itself from the walls, melts into a calm stream, then whirlpools down the drain — but I can clean it up with pure white cotton pads, wipe off the mess, wash away the streaks left behind, or I can collect the rubies in a cup up to its brim and carry it over to the sink, dump it like a glass of red wine that's been left out from last night's party, then sanitize the surface and use it again and put on clean panties, because where I am the water comes out clear from the faucet butㅡ

Not all tributaries flow in very vein of earth and reach every home. There, water reeks of gasoline green, mud rot bones like open graves and unflushed toilets. No cotton pad to soak up the blood, but a rag of an old shirt or a quilt or a tablecloth or even baby socks. They wash it with the rain from the sky, if it rains at all, or if it doesn't rain of phosphorus — they wring it dry and use again, or use nothing at all, letting the red stream flow to mix with the mud rot caking their feet; bracing simultaneously against the fiercest heatwave of a desert; the whiteout in the tundra; then they run away from home,

away

away

away ㅡ but other eyes still track their faint red footprints, and smell the iron dust clouding the skyㅡ

I can turn the faucet hot or cold, on and off, wash my hands, dry them with a towel. If I forget to bring a pad with me, a friend can dig through her purse and give me one, or if she can't, she'll dig out her car keys and say, “There’s a store around the corner we’ll go pick some up.”

Photo of g.a.costa

BIO: g.a.costa is a writer from southern California. Her work has appeared in several journals, including Radon Journal, The Quasar Review, and Eunoia Review. She’s currently based in South Korea and spends her free time writing stories and poetry and taking long walks through the rice fields with her husband. (cgacosta.weebly.com)