Lady Macbeth had no children of course.
She was haunted by blood.
She could find no relief from it. Month
After month.

Perhaps when it first started
She sat down in a little yellow attic room underneath
A life-size poster of D. Cassidy wearing furry boots
And, eyes ever widening, added up
The likely number of days
In her likely life when blood would
Pour or flow or drip. Forgetting about pregnancy.
Rightly as it turned out.

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