Healing Moon

Full, Round—Mother of the Skies,

She releases the silver waves,

That Mars and illness do despise,

Healing waters insanity saves.

 

When She comes they see the unseen,

of dead and malformed, a terror to women be,

Coffee-maidens by daylight's screen,

Falling, Floating, lost at sea.

 

Her light is high,

And filters thin between the trees,

Her maidens spied,

through her clouded knees.

 

They dance, they worship, they celebrate.

A society of loons and prophets

of the mighty Hecate

hoping against hope and fearing against frets.

 

These maidens have one plea,

open hand and burning pyres

“Heal the land and set us free,

to speak without accused tongue of liars”

 

They leap and breathe,

Pray, pulse, and need,

As they take ahead and thieve,

Their mortal skins without heed.

 

No longer do they feel the shame,

of burnished thighs and bruised eyes

or the prickle of a secret blame

Of their societies lies.

 

Their souls are free

to leap

taken into She,

who knows the meaning of the deep.

 

She is the moon--

Oh the healing mother,

She is the moon,

And death she smother

 

Now, they be in eternal dreams

not fettered by an ancient chain

minds not threatening to burst its seams

and go a floating in a Summer rain.

 

Full and Round—the mother of the stars,

She takes their ashes,

Tosses them farther than Mars,

and now they join her in their sashes

 

Across the stars.