Menarche
I think of the eggs that hung beneath
My childhood pond reeds, the cyclical
Water moon-pulled through their fine membranes
Waiting to tear. And how you came, my tiny
Amphibians, torn from my womb sac,
Your eggs perfect, intact, even then
Like galaxies numerous beyond our backyard
Stars, that Full Long Nights Moon, Wolf Moon, Moon
Of the Red Grass Appearing lighting you up already.
Dark fish of your eyes, moon in the window,
I held you, said, Here, still say these thirteen
Years, the garden opening once more,
And each flower hanging above the late
Blown snow—my soon winter and your spring—
Gone to seed sock-eyed and skull-headed,
The air sweet and sweet. Dark of the Moon
And you shedding your first wise blood.
Thinnest now, they say, between the Holy
And you, and no sorrow, not now, not now.
published in Calyx
