Moon From the Porch

Moon has dusks for walls, October’s days for a floor, crickets for rooms, windy halls. Only one night is her door. When I was thirteen she found me, spiralled into my blood like a hive. I stood on a porch where she wound me for the first time, tight and alive, till my body flooded to find her: to know I would not be alone as I moved through the tides that don't bind her into womanhood, like a flung stone. With each curve that waxed into fullness I grew to her, ready and wild. I filled myself up like her priestess. I emptied myself like her child. Flooding, ready, and certain, I hid her—full, fallow, or frail— beneath each long summer's rich curtain. It covered her face—the thin grail that delivers me now. Now I’m with her. All cast shadows come home. I stand in these shadows to kiss her; I spin in her cool, calming storm. Now as I move through my own beauty and my shadow grows deeper than blood, oh triple, oh goddess, sustain me with your light’s simple opening hood.