Sonnet 13; or, My First Period

The peeling garden gate was slightly stiff,
  like me, I thought, arthritic at thirteen.
I made towards the sheds and caught a whiff
  of rabbit piss and shit I had to clean.
The guineas needed mucking out as well;
  I placed their carry-case inside the hutch.
They trotted in, dear Goldilocks and Belle;
  I stroked their hair; they chuckled at my touch.
The second task was tending Lady Winch,
  the rabbit, dark and often in distress;
I crouched, the effort causing me to flinch
  and cramp, then spot some blood upon my dress;
"My period!" I gasped. And Lady leapt,
escaped across the fields. I stood and wept.