![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ7haezkGpPvu2RZ5NRnv3oLJvcr8HOAijou426yq-lsiLq-XjKwOarHPQ5lJk7iPwypxos2u4RAqyQ51cWDMJwvHUsls1ClD5eTlrXC0kwhJKn34pKYWjgdDFG3io8EFblLk5D6Cq0vo/s320/Blood-moon.jpg) |
Blood moon over Gaza City, 2007. |
Her blood is in the toilet again. Perhaps she is purging old myths. She needs new stories, new endings in which the phone rings inquisitively, a bright prize buzz, a shiny sound. The blood in the toilet reminds her of her wedding suite, the valentine-shaped tub, the ketchup red gloss of love. Its top, its sides she has chewed for years, after she ate her own heart.
(originally published in
Word Riot here.)