Poem Curing Rag

This is not the rag
the ailing woman stuffed
between her thighs
as she made her way
through the crowd.

No, this rag was a burlap sack
drenched in water
and placed over concrete slowing
the curing time.

The woman had been bleeding
for twelve years and just
a touch of a strangers ski jacket
stanched her bleeding.

Burlap so rough but good
at retaining water like
a floppy sultan’s turban
around a wood post.

The bleeding woman
walked home still stained
by stares and memories.
She took the rag
from her thighs, and those
from the clothesline, waiting
for her neighbor to come outside
to converse over the new fence
with the support posts dressed
in burlap; bowlegging into freedom
she could wait forever. Cured