Sullen as fists that sacrificed the sky,

the lake’s black night fed mountains, and they curled

all month, awaiting birth, till he and I

gave nothing but my blood to save the world

with our generous and frightened empty hands.

We leaned and questioned in the cupping glow . . .

the moon will gather what she understands,

the opening that only she burns through. . .

Keeping her face to us, to hide in me,

she speaks in the rusty clouds. She died in me.

She reddens my own smoked water back past dawn,

burning me into blood. And on she burns,

turning as steady as the planet turns,

through every day and night that I burn on. . .

From Spells (First appeared in Santa Clara Review)