I knew it made me prized, helpless; that losing it
would make me bleed. Because the desires of boys
angered my father, so did I — though desire 

seemed unconnected to the way they would, in a pack,
stand in a driveway and call out invitations. 

If I could pass and seem unshaken, 
they would shout at my back, You bitch! 

This long afternoon on the mountain in Winslow
Ellen and I drink tea, look out her back window,
and wait for a purebred colt to be born. 

The Arabian mare has lost her mucus plug, 
and there will be no other sign: prey animals 
have their babies fast, to walk away before the blood 
attracts a predator. 
                              I could not have known 
my father wanted to deliver me unharmed;

I would not have trusted anyone to see 

that something growing inside me wanted out,
wanted to be shaking and raw, wet and new.