Menses on an Eiderdown

by Bruce Whiteman

“Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.”
— Wallace Stevens

Do women care for men who cry? A splash
of sunlight in silent January is enough
to bring on tears, a child at risk, a taut,
cruel feeling that all feeling equals

the fear of death at heart, the fear of
messing up and being dead,
inconsolable again. The stain
is never coming out, Ms Faux Semblant,

your deepest wish is deeply yours.
The grand shillyshally of our final
days is closer now, chilly death and its
dark refrigeration, a

boorish finger at its lips.
Weep for what’s been sullied,
she won’t. What she’s wrought
she’s chillingly game to cheer at.

I don’t know if women care
for men who cry. Ask? I’d never dare.