there's blood on the newspaper
(period poverty: wintertime, u.s.a.)
This is the second in our new series: Nerdy Notes: Science in Story & Verse
In these posts, our Nerdy Girl scientists and clinicians will share personal stories, insights, poetry, and more. While these posts may be lighter in terms of numbers and figures, they will still be rooted in our tradition and commitment to providing accessible and trustworthy information.
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there's blood on the newspaper
(period poverty: wintertime, u.s.a.)
by MacKenzie Isaac
there's blood on today’s newspaper.
viscous droplets underlining supreme court rulings
cascading past the colorful clarion calls of consumerism
obscuring details of the latest neighborhood bombing,
smudging the still-wet ink spelling out the victims’ font-six lives.
i groan into my forearm as the blood soaks past headlines
until the editorials and comics stick together,
just as good, i think. i never read those pages anyways
with their opinions that could never be mine
and their impossible characters who never wear pants
and they’re basically the same thing.
i huff out a breathy laugh but am interrupted by a sharp pang and a dripping from my left thigh so i groan into my arm again.
being loud out here is a luxury i cannot afford.
there’s blood on today’s newspaper.
i wince as i drag my life from one small corner of the world to another
praying that the bite of the cold distracts from the paper cuts,
inhaling from a crisp outdoors dotted with white,
exhaling into a weather forecast now stained a hazy brown.
today i actually remember
to remove the obituaries before the bleeding fully blots out their faces.
i delicately tuck the page into my shoe
because some of us ought to be protected.
there's blood on today’s newspaper,
but somehow the sports section is still dry
so i walk to the park, past the basketball courts
to my favorite bench
and i fold the playoffs’ scores four times and lay them beneath my head
and i fall asleep thinking about how beautiful the mahogany-streaked park bench will look against the backdrop of the white-grey january morning.
i wake up and begin the ritual of dragging my life from this sunrise to next
but by midday my knees give out as a rage burns between my thighs.
it snowed last night, but the leaves look so much like autumn,
so does my washrag
and my last pair of socks
(i moved the obituaries to my bra.)
and the plastic bag i usually save for groceries.
i ran out of newspaper today.
still, somewhere, you can find it dyed red
I’d like to encourage everyone to extract their own interpretations from this poem and to courageously confront the emotions that arise as different words, phrases, lines, and stanzas speak to them. I hope that every re-read of the poem (whether it’s re-read in rapid succession or re-read years from now) gives new meaning and weight to the message.
Further reading: What is period poverty?
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