For my grandmother, who watched a comedy show
without moving her hips for three hours
because the red came
& the red was a secret
she had to hold it in / hold it down
like a cough like a curse
like a name she was never told
my grandmother laughed with her mouth shut
her legs crossed
her thighs glued to the wooden chair
& the punchline landed
but she couldn't stand
because standing was confessing
& confessing was bleeding
& bleeding was the first sin she learned to spell
my mother buys pads in plastic bags
black bags for black nights for black hands
the cashier doesn't look
the coins don't speak
but the bag crinkles like crumpled shame
she walks home with her arms crossed over it
like a wound she doesn't want the street to see
on the dinner table my uncle asks for more rice
my aunt talks about the weather
& my mother whispers "monthly coming"
like a hole in the sentence
everyone chews louder
the soy sauce bottle passes like a pardon
no one says the word twice
at school the boys point at the chair
the red stain like a signature like a confession
they laugh they spell it out with their fingers
"blood blood blood"
like it's a joke
& the girl who sat there disappears
into the bathroom
into the stall
into the silence
where she folds herself into a black bag too
what is this red
what is this thread
does it sew us shut or stitch us together
do we carry it like a passport or a prison
does it name us or un-name us
why do we hide what grows from us
why do we wrap it in black
like it's a gun
like it's a theft
like it's a ghost that follows our grandmothers
from chair to chair
I want to say it loud
spit it out with my tongue against my teeth
not a whisper not a "p" or a "m"
but a name a spell a bell
that rings through the dinner table
through the plastic bag
through the classroom floor
and tells my grandmother
she can stand up now
the comedy is over
but the joke was never hers.