Darling, one moon rests upon my arm,
the other in my womb,
and it is lonely work
to be filled with such light.
It is wrenching to deliver
this speckled being
with crescent hung eyes.

Do not think it solace,
my swollen body’s stillness,
how I shun
sun and sky.
Give me darkness for fermentation,
heat of thighs, and I will make
a mouth, a toe, a cranium bowl
that glows as our winter gibbous.