I feel I should warn you
that this is a poem about a tampon
and a mother who asked for some privacy
from the other side of the bathroom door
but then her son asked if he could see
what all this menstrual stuff was about
and time hung in a thick moment
while the mother explored at least forty thousand
possible solutions to this dilemma
like cards in a deck
and ended up choosing the one
that spoke in her own voice
sure, if you want, but it’s kind of bloody
in weirdly chipper way
but she was nervous, after all,
and didn’t want him growing up
thinking something so natural was gross
so it happened
right there
that morning
this poem about a tampon
and all her son said was
it sort of looks like a half-eaten hot dog
and then they laughed so hard
the mother knew
she had chosen
the right card.