Full Moon

When the moon is full

Of its pure yellow milk

I bleed every time

So I can visit again with the old songs

Pa use to sing.

All night he stands guard

He never knew he was born to be

An angel for his last child

Not born of his wife

But of his heart.

He stands in the wet moonlight

Waiting for other ghosts

To spill through the warm air

And into the sealed windows

To try and choke me again

In my blood signed bed.

Then he watches as his first grandchild

comes from the shadows

and he steps up to great her

from the great arms of night.

He holds her like I never have

Soaking her features to his breast.

That broken child

Of curdled white and guilt red

Still pulls my womb away form my skin

Every time the moon shines full

In its pure yellow milk.