In Praise of the Moon and Earth As Tidally Locked Bodies in Synchronous Rotation

by Quinn Forlini

Your period came today — yay! 
When you saw the faint stains 
after your evening jog, you thought,
This calls for a celebration — 
and commenced the festivities, 
donning traditional garments: 
your favorite nude bra 
and pink cotton underwear 
for comfort and ultimate feminine
exaltation. And you love the sound
a fresh pad makes when you peel
off the wax paper, unwrap it 
like a birthday present, the one 

you asked for. You stuck it 
snugly to that lining strip 
as if to say, Come forth, 
here’s a soft spot, I’m ready! 
Now you bask in your half-
nakedness, leave the backyard 
window-shade open for the late sun 
just pouring in, and you’ve bought 
new daffodils like fallopian tubes 
spreading wide from a glass vase, wet
stems trying to soak up what they need.  
How wonderful to be prepared 

like this — you could’ve almost guessed
it would be today. As you jogged  
you felt your pulse quicken, heat 
in your abdomen. Part of the fun 
is not-quite-knowing, an advantage
of not being a twenty-eight-day 
kind of girl — that slight surprise 
bringing you back to your touchable 
flesh, those cryptic little happenings 
inside you’ve learned about 
in fragments, like catching glimpses

of your life in tarot cards. You rode 
an Icelandic pony when you were 
fifteen and yes, you were afraid
of horses, but you wanted 
to know how it felt to straddle 
the back of another beating animal, 
then get off and stand again,  
that vast other-breath still 
a quiver in your legs.

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