I imagined papering my body with the translucent skins of onions,
the unsweet scent shielding me from predators,
a perfume of protection to wear under my homemade clothes.

Running a fingertip through the slick of olive oil on the bottom of the sauté pan,
rancid from sitting too long in the dark of the can by the stove –
dabbing the pinguid film behind my ears,
atop the rim of my collarbone,
between my breasts,
along the inside crease of my wrists,
the way my mother did with the last of the amber drops of cologne my father gave her before he died –
an elixir grown to deflect an unwanted kiss.

If I had been bold enough I might have peeled the red enamel away from the tips of my nails,
and bit them back to the quick, the sight of my shabbily dressed fingers deflating an unwelcome caress.

Or pulled my hand away and wrapped it ‘round the nape of my neck,
clumping my long blond mane in my fist,
pretending I have a headache,
I am tired,
there is something in my eye,
I have to go now,
I am late,
my mother will be angry dinner is not on the table.

If I had been bold enough I might have encouraged my smooth-shaven legs to rise again stubbled,
as on a poorly plucked guinea hen, bits of afterfeather and calamus still attached here and there.

Presented myself so,
cold and clammy,
blue-veined and sickly,
like a naked lifeless bird,
a spit running me through from mouth to ass,
fit only for the heat of a camp fire,
the hungry gullet of a woodsman,
a ravenous dog.

If I had been bold enough I could have draped myself in gunny sack, and lay upon a bale of hay in the pasture, the hot sun melting into me, as a mother into her suckling child.

I imagined papering my body with the translucent skins of onions,
a Mantis oozing her ooetheca onto the branch of a weeping cedar,
a bouquet of foam to protect her young until the chill of winter gives birth to spring.

The day the red came I was ten, and I hid in the bathroom waiting for the bell to ring and the voices of students and teachers to fall silent, thighs knees ankles clenched tight together to hold it up inside me, my underwear layered with thin folded squares of cheap toilet paper to keep the red off.

Girlish loveliness blossomed into womanly pulchritude,
my youthful face reshaped while I slept,
chiseled cheekbones and sharp nose
sculpted beneath the point of a widow’s peak, like my mother’s,
an immovable gaze and full lips hewn above a pointed chin, like my father’s,
the head of a seductress perched above bony sternum arched ribs hollow waist pubis mound,
alone in the desert,
soon to be hunted by vultures.

If I had been bold enough I might have strode proudly down the hall like a Butterfly Maiden, my black wool felt dress belted in red, and danced under the sun with an eagle feather between my teeth.

I remember the janitor cranking the wash mop
through the rollers in the aluminum water pail,
and slopping clean the urine-drenched floor in the boy’s bathroom,
slipping out the schoolroom door with my books
held close to my chest,
and billowing my gray and yellow and black checked skirt out from my body,
to keep the red off,
stealing across the schoolyard and up the long dirt path to the ditch bank.

If I had been bold enough I would have howled back at the neighborhood dogs as I picked my way through the tangle of crusty tumbleweeds, the switches of wild olives stinging my legs as I passed.

I remember reaching the road that led home
and walking in the center of the graveled stretch,
past goats sharpening their horns on cheap chain link fences,
past geckos smashed flat by truck tires and crawling with black desert ants,
past colts dozing beside their mothers beneath cottonwood trees,
past unkempt yards strewn with rusty refrigerators and washing machines,
past roosters and their hens picking grasshoppers
off tall skinny stalks of wild asparagus growing in the gully by the roadside.

If I had been bold enough I would have climbed atop my Indian Paint and ridden off into the sagebrush-laced desert, and communed with the Blood Goddess as the orange sun slipped below the horizon.

The day the red came, I stared at the coagulated glob atop the folded tissue, and watched the crimson painted squares disappear down the throat of the sewer as I flushed them down down down to mingle with the earth.

I stood in the shower under a stream of hot water as the room filled with steam, and reached my fingers up into my softness, pulling out strands of womb sheath – scarlet burgundy mahogany berry brick currant merlot sangria – the colors blending into one another as on a painter’s palette, the water licking me clean, lips cheekbones tongue breasts pubis and vulva.

Neighborhood dogs howled in the distance
and I remembered climbing the cherry tree in the far acre,
picking round ruby fruits heated by the sun,
popping them into my mouth,
and slurping the scarlet juice as it flowed down my chin.

Neighborhood dogs howled in the distance
and I remembered climbing atop the grape arbor in the summer,
picking wine-colored orbs heated by the sun,
pushing handfuls into my mouth,
and crushing them with my teeth until the tart sweet skins turned my lips purple.

Neighborhood dogs howled in the distance
and I remembered stepping through the rock garden,
picking plum-colored prickly pear fruits heated by the sun,
pulling the sharp spines out with my fingernails,
and slicing open the fleshy desert figs, digging out the insides with my tongue.

Neighborhood dogs howled in the distance
and I remembered the last year the plum tree behind the shanty bore fruit,
picking through the bird-eaten remnants of sweetness heated by the sun
holding a solitary and perfect plum in the palm of my hand,
and seeing how far from the tree I could spit the pit after sucking it clean.

Neighborhood dogs howled in the distance
and I remembered lying awake at night,
freshly folded layers of tissue lining my flannel pajamas
tucked safely between the folds of my thighs,
and falling asleep with my back pressed against the cold brick wall.

Neighborhood dogs howled in the distance
and I remembered a new scent,
musty, like moss after an afternoon rain
like moldy grape leaves fallen in the yard after the first frost,
and licking the taste of me off my fingers when I awoke in the morning.

I stood in the shower under a stream of hot water as the room filled with steam, and watched the red run down my legs, mingling with the water as it pooled between my toes – beet currant concord passion pomegranate prune raspberry strawberry – the colors fading into one another as on a painter’s palette, the water licking me clean, lips cheekbones tongue breasts pubis and vulva.

I imagined draping myself in translucent chiffon,
and wrapping the filmy fabric around my nude body, cradling my hips and my buttocks,
as on the bodies of the Spanish dancers etched onto the board that hung over my mother’s bed.

Flowing across the woman’s breasts,
around her back,
over her partner’s shoulders,
down his groin and across his phallus,
his finger touching the fleshy bulbous tip,
as though it were a flower,
the lovers hungrily gazing down at it as one
the gauze pooling on the floorboards around their commingled feet.

Posing for a painting wearing a pearl earring, donning a straw hat and walking down a cobbled street dressed like a lady, wearing green silk stockings, and doing the cancan in a music hall for money.

Painted but not touched,
kissed with oils and sunlight,
my pores stroked with the bristles of dead hogs,
my cheeks blushed with a girl’s heat,
my lips, painted Rembrandt red, silently humming a song of innocence,
protected from the fingers of men,
allowed another day of buoyant virginity
under a thin layer of shellac.

My mother left pink rose blooms on the bushes ‘til fully unfurled, their petals praying for one more ray of light before begging to be cut for the cobalt blue vases on the windowsill.
I stitched clothes of silk,
pretended I was a flower,
polished my shoes with Vaseline,
until I could see my reflection
in the black patent leather,
tied my hair with golden ribbons,
covered my arms with my mother’s jewelry
and lay in the grass beside the grape arbor with a boy too young to love.

My mother watched from the window as the wind drove the last trace of iridescent purple, violet and chrome yellow from the velvety inner layers of Irises growing in the cactus garden.

As she rescued the wilting stems, bathed them in a stream of cool water under the sink spout, and placed them in cobalt blue vases next to the dying roses on the windowsill, I lay in the grass beside the grape arbor with a boy too blind to love me.