The story of this poem: I deal with Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder on a daily basis, and one day I found myself filled with rage at how much of my time and energy I spend reckoning with this thing inside me that’s beyond my control. This is a revision of the poem I wrote that day.
MIDDLE-PAIN The German word is mittelschmerz. It translates to middle-pain. Another definition I can trade: Slippery guts torn ragged By a master’s searching blade. No white flag thrown by my hands is enough. Middle-pain: she fucks you rough. Middle-pain shouts: “Potential is bursting through the door!” I dig deep, I do my best to ignore it, I do amazing self-care for it, And it is still a bomb inside. It is still a knife. It translates to middle-pain. As Trump curled all his naughty fingers ‘Round my country’s wheel, My body’s cavern Echoed my own egg’s protesting squeals: It chose last night To throw a fist and make the journey, To remind me of my burden, To bring me back down to sea level Just when I began to rise, Just when I started to forget How the ache of each month feels, Just when it started to seem not-real. It translates to middle-pain. This ride's a comic villain: It lacks those human decencies Of tact and timing. (Much like our new president, you see.) Though I resent the state of our union, I feel no confusion Over which things I can control. I cannot change the results of elections, But I can let my words spin. When I feel the horror slip onto my face, I can mask it with a deep grin. It translates to middle-pain. How can I explain That this is not the proper label? Let’s rework it with the writers Who named Axe and Doritos: Something more… Neon-nineties-extreme, please. If I have to have it, Can it at least sound radical? It translates to middle-pain, And even though I find the light, That glow comes from a bomb inside. Do not make me admire your fine sword. It’s just a knife.
Thank you so much for reading my work.
See you next week.
