Stiletto Moon

Sometimes the stiletto moon gleams
the stubbled husks, teasing out their
wither, their hush and whisper,
 
their earth-swallow. Harvest:
a memory of water and sun
or clean bones. If my face
 
is a browning parchment
spread over embers, and if
the flames pierce me,
 
mouth and eye, am I broken
or freed, bite by bit, each piece
a small eddy, a world?
 
A man said, every man
is born as many men and dies
a single one. Yet I was born
 
a single girl
wet, red, and howling,
and I will die as many:
 
sister, mother, mistress, wife--
the woman who rejected you,
the one who let you in.


This poem first appeared in Passages North
​ Image by Igor Morski, used with permission