Poetry by Susan Darlington : Rite of Passage

Rite of Passage

It was my neighbour’s daughter who told me.
About how the older girls had hung tampons
on a willow tree near the school gate,
some slick with dark blood and tissue,
others with the palest pink shredded cotton.

It was, she said, a rite of passage.
That the girls would become women
when they could make their own offering.
That they were reclaiming menarche
from generations of secrecy and stigma.

Boys had looked on in horror, she said.
Had shouted red rag from across the yard
and then dared one another to touch the blood;
to remove the tampons and throw them around.
That’s when the teacher had appeared.

I felt a twinge of sadness when she told me.
About how my need for tampons had passed.
That fertility had been wasted on me
and that the only rite of passage left
was from spinster to thornback to crone.


Wolfpack Contributor: Susan Darlington

A Poetry Showcase by Susan Darlington