Waning to Wax

Secret lunar and menstrual magic flows quietly behind today’s work. It carries on with the recent theme, the latest stage in the Lovers’ story, but I have been considering which aspects of life I still have not listened to fully, and female lore was first. It’s in everything I do, but there is so much I know and have not shared. Here it is, just creeping into the flow of song:

9 March 2021


The Constant Constant Flow

She shuddered as if she were feverish, freezing,

and both in and out of her sore, burning skin.

If she could stand by the window and see what

I see, would she signal, and let someone in,

and would they rush to greet her, with happy abandon?

The puddle of blood on the floor at my feet

was already there when I woke up so frantic

with terrible dreams that I made myself meet

the pitiless author–the dreadful composer–

the one who had edited into my real

and seemingly only perspective a slowly,

relentlessly dawning desire to both feel

and know utterly, surely, I’ll not feel forever

again. There will always begin a new stain,

another sad woman who woke in the dead of

a feverish night in an ocean of pain,

and discovered herself for this millionth of lifetimes

the source of the flow–will the flood never end?

Here as I stand looking on with a scything

companion, he’s telling me, Rush no more, friend;

once she has shuddered her portion its limit,

her time will wind round like a song in the air.

You wanted to feel and to be one she loved, so

begin again here–where you are, she’s not there.

Any flow that is not merely constant but Constant is going to leave a woman drained and exhausted in no time, as the women of us know. How will she be sustained until she can wax again?


About J

formal verse poetry and commentary at rainharp.com
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