Stigma

There’s no such thing as a beautiful stain,
she said. You must watch your soul. There were rings
everywhere. On the stove, on her fingers,
in her ears, in the table--the fine grain
tunneling under a charred brand. The rain
won’t wash them away, she said. Mothers
know stains, she added. Your blood on cotton brings
shame, your cotton on blood won’t staunch the pain.

I longed for iconic stains. Shade of peach
and shape of pear. Blot of avocado.
I slashed my jeans, rolled my sleeves in the dirt,
mocked her pat superstitions and her neat bleach,
rubbed red wine in her salt and tales of woe.
How could I have known a stain would hurt.