I walk into the public restroom
that is covered in wallpaper full
of abstract swirls like the canvases
of Lee Krasner and Helen Frankenthaler.
I slide past the infrastructure of doors
and hinges, latches that glitch a little
and often never quite align. And once
I choose my stall and walk inside
I see a small brilliant red dot
of blood on the toilet seat.
A pomegranate seed. A broken
piece of coral. A tiny slice
of chili pepper. A dead lady
bug. A splash of cabernet.
It of course is none of these.
The breeze from the hand-dryer
somehow trains up under the stall.
It is hot and now this modest space
is even hotter. There is no remedy
for what happens next. I ping back
to myself, a younger woman. How often I prayed
for blood. How I charted the empire
of endometrium and eggs. How I knew
that trees assembled their shadows
just so. And how now I am on the other side
of all such worries. She must have left
in such a hurry. Not to notice
the ruby dropped in such a public spot.
I feel close to her, like I know her.
I shared her fears, maybe her dreams.
I back out of the stall, never using it.
An automatic sink clicks on
with no one in front of it.
Copyright © 2026 by Didi Jackson. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 9, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
