At the dead end of our street
weather broke what would not bend,
forced down a tall oak, never again
to grow. It fell the day I first bled.

Some girls come of age alone
in a tribal menstrual hut. Others
whisper their secret to a friend.
I clambered up, arms wide, and walked

that balance beam, dirty, exposed roots
to smashed branches. Then my mother
sewed me into a red skirt and the tree
began to melt into the earth.