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.