August Moon

I strip - kindred -
a sliver of a mountainous female, beneath our  
New Moon
and wash,  
wash away the walls of fertility,  
prepare with a clean linen
a generative body for rebirth.
I grieve
what wasn't, and engage with the throbbing-ache  
of an egg abandoning the hen,  
and I indulge my back ache, my tiredness, my sore skin
as payment for blossom, regardless
of pollination.  
Under our New Moon I stand my idol,  
physique of the Mother, a period in time where I am living, breathing, thriving -
and thank her, in her clay pregnant belly, and milking breasts
for supporting another cycle.