Moon From the Porch

Moon has dusks for walls,

October’s days for a floor,

crickets for rooms, windy halls.

Only one night is her door.

When I was thirteen she found me,

spiralled into my blood like a hive.

I stood on a porch where she wound me

for the first time, tight and alive,

till my body flooded to find her:

to know I would not be alone

as I moved through the tides that don't bind her

into womanhood, like a flung stone.

With each curve that waxed into fullness

I grew to her, ready and wild.

I filled myself up like her priestess.

I emptied myself like her child.

Flooding, ready, and certain,

I hid her—full, fallow, or frail—

beneath each long summer's rich curtain.

It covered her face—the thin grail

that delivers me now. Now I’m with her.

All cast shadows come home.

I stand in these shadows to kiss her;

I spin in her cool, calming storm.

Now as I move through my own beauty

and my shadow grows deeper than blood,

oh triple, oh goddess, sustain me

with your light’s simple opening hood.

Copyright Credit: Annie Finch, "Moon from the Porch" from Calendars. Copyright © 2003 by Annie Finch. Reprinted by permission of Annie Finch.