The 13th Moon

The thirteenth moon will wane
and then what? Do I just begin
to walk the wild hills as a crone?

Will that silken purse which carried
four small treasures
with varying degrees of success

become suddenly a sow’s ear,
the luscious fatsome maternal garb
shrivel and shrink and dry up?

Perhaps there ought to be a certificate:
Menopause Achieved, a fanfare,
cheering, and a teary speech.

I an grateful that my body
has been a river, bearing the eggs
that were already in me when I hung

head-down in my own mother’s body,
for the four which found their match,
stopping the river for their seasons,

for the two who breathed the air
with the intervening aid of the scalpel.
When the red tides receded for the final time,

I was left here on the open strand,
with new names shimmering around me:
Beachcomber, Bone-picker, Shell-seeker,

I search in the starlight
for the rich detritus that remains–
shadowed, luminescent, holy.