Women's Trouble

I bled through to the mattress

and he didn't make a sound —

just got up, came back with a towel,

set a glass of water on the nightstand

without looking at me.

Not tenderness, exactly.

More like — respect.

Like the body gets to do what it does

without an audience.

I lay there thinking about my grandmother

who I met twice, maybe three times,

who died of something the family called

women's trouble,

which meant: we're not saying.

Which meant: we're moving on.

She bled from something internal

that went unnamed for long enough

to matter, and the family —

what, made coffee? Changed the subject?

Said it wasn't serious until it was?

I don't know. No one told me.

I pulled the towel around me.

The water was cold already.

The stain on the sheet

the color of old rust,

the color of everything

that gets called trouble

when it should have been called

help.