Rebecca Foust

Neap Tide Wane

I thought it would wane with my waning years, 
but my moon blood rose 
clotted and dark like blue-black earth 
spaded over in spring after rain. 
Not the change I expected, 
I rejected its excess, its feral tang
and red-mouthed insistence 
that I believe what I can no longer conceive, 
a child, new love, perhaps an idea. 
But I have heard the exact tick of the tide-clock
and know the cost of each crimson bloom; 
I know the blood that monthly makes its ebb 
takes more than moon renews. 
Cells slough, bones honeycomb like coral. 
I lessen, lose mass and soon 
I’ll be dry and light, clean, bled white 
as any beach-wrecked bit of bleached bone, 
floated like a whisper, or a wish. A husk.