I walk into the public restroom
that is covered in wallpaper full
of abstract swirls like the canvases  
of Lee Krasner and Helen Frankenthaler. 
I slide past the infrastructure of doors
and hinges, latches that glitch a little
and often never quite align. And once
I choose my stall and walk inside 
I see a small brilliant red dot 
of blood on the toilet seat. 
A pomegranate seed. A broken 
piece of coral. A tiny slice 
of chili pepper. A dead lady 
bug. A splash of cabernet. 
It of course is none of these. 
The breeze from the hand-dryer 
somehow trains up under the stall. 
It is hot and now this modest space
is even hotter. There is no remedy 
for what happens next. I ping back
to myself, a younger woman. How often I prayed
for blood. How I charted the empire 
of endometrium and eggs. How I knew
that trees assembled their shadows 
just so. And how now I am on the other side
of all such worries. She must have left
in such a hurry. Not to notice 
the ruby dropped in such a public spot. 
I feel close to her, like I know her. 
I shared her fears, maybe her dreams. 
I back out of the stall, never using it.
An automatic sink clicks on
with no one in front of it.