Blood and the Moon

This vampire fang of a moon

protrudes from the lip of the night,

sickles me with its scythe point,

sucks all the blood out of me once a month,

grows bloated on its scarlet drink

while I blanch moon-pale and wane.

Thirteen times a year my tide goes out,

my iron drawn to a horseshoe magnet

Thirteen times a year my tide comes in.

Suckled by the sky’s midnight breast,

I wax moon-shimmery, moon-full,

drink the night to a shrivelled witch’s dug,

fattened on its blood.

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