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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem