unclean echoing 

 

 

We take some mushrooms at a cabin in Quebec. We find an eagle feather in a field, strips of birch-bark 

planted in our path. I bleed heavy. My cup is full of dark, thick blood. You hold it while I dip the eagle 

quill in. I draw a tree 

 

with my uterine-lining 

on the flattened parchment 

 

re-create / re-route / re-root past fullness. Skin now weighted down. Not sticky but slick. Use what's 

been shed — exit 

 

                      myself without pain 

 

how to harvest, thin tin  

   bucket of my body.  

         Instead — 

 

I sketch roots, letters of our names, initials clot, chunk, this could have fed a child but here — spread it  

 

thinner         draw a leaf           breathe it dry         wonder if I could sell this 

 

Limited Edition 1/1 

Birch-bark 

Mid-menses ink in psychedelic typeset 

 

I love flushing crucial things I create down the toilet. I love when it takes two tries. Copper induced 

weightiness, breast overflow, body overflow, sap push past bark. Yeah, yeah, a woman is a tree, I keep 

coming back to this, a woman wrapped in red paper leaves, a woman 

 

swollen / grotesque / beautiful 

 

I wonder about privacy but 

 

it feels good to let myself bleed in public. Hold my once-shame up to a dim bulb. To watch you hold it, 

calm. Transparent. Witness colour change. To craft cramps into crudely drawn glyphs, roll pain into a 

scroll and keep it in a bowl on our bookshelf. We have company and no one knows. I wonder if it is 

sanitary, and if this wondering 

 

isn't just millennia of men  

                                  saying 

                                  I'm unclean  

 

echoing through me