Not of The Fall, but of some heavenly bower?
Who thought a sweet perfume,
Pervading all the room,
Drawing everyone's attention
To the fact of one's menstruation,
A desirable state of affairs?
And who decided the smell should linger,
Long beyond the bleeding days,
So that opening ones knicker draw
Searching for something lacy, racy,
In celebration of ovulation,
Full of the joys of being alive,
Forgetting one's cares,
One should be hit, once more,
By that manufactured aroma
Absorbed into interstitial space between atoms,
As thoroughly as the old, brown-black blood had been drawn
Into the fragrant sanitary towel?
Who decided that we wished to be reminded
Of that gross combination-
One's body's rejection
Of an old egg, almost as old as one's own conception,
Shed, with bits of endometrium, in a state of putrefaction;
And some poor imitation
Channel Number 5?
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