In the alleys below her heart,

a drain, as if inside there’s

a city, blood gathering

in a pool, a cistern.

When it overflows, first just

a drip, then a stream

hidden, the way spirits

hide inside trees and rocks,

there in that well, teacup

inside flesh, is a crouching thing,

how it claws when it’s flushed

from her, how each time

there’s a tug so strong, aching

sacrum and arch drawing

toward her thighs.

Then she’s a long root

of blood opening from below

as if the body, as if

the body, as if—no,

of course not—something tips

over inside her.