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new moon’s eve
tomorrow, the moon will empty. tonight, i do. shedding fecundity never realized; possibilities not fertilized. pieces of myself i’m not meant to hold. under the watchful eye of the matriarchs, my body clenches and sloughs, resists and protests. until i moan an acceptance and crumple, withered and curled, like a nursling against her mother-flesh. i sense them then, the hidden circle of crones. grandmothers past who stroke my cheek and trace the lines on my hands; tell me i am finite but make it sound sweet. “we can hold nothing” my woman-body echoes them, red dress on. “we can hold nothing but the willingness to let go.”
Today I’m traveling a few hours north to Minneapolis to see Taylor Swift in concert. So, I figured, what’s a way to honor the fact that as you read this I will be blissfully belting out some of the best woman-centric song lyrics ever written with 70,000 women ages 8 to 48?
With a poem about periods, of course.
Actually this poem is more about ancestors than periods but do with it what you will. And you should know that I pulled it from a folder in my Google Drive and did not whip it up on the spot so, alas, I must tell you that today is not actually New Moon’s Eve. (That was last week.)
Paid subscribers, next week is your bonus post week so brace yourselves for gratuitous photos from the Eras Tour, some extensive take-aways, and — you know me — a good metaphor or two.
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