At full moon, fat

and pale as a pearl,

I enter the hut.


Drums beat a slow

throb beneath my belly,

dark circles the drains


of my eyes. I’m stuffed

full of sickness, hidden

from trees; the eaves house


a raven’s croak, the smell

of blood. The moon

magnetizes, twists my back—


I am her puppet, laid flat.

We bed down together.

The sun should burn


me to ash, barren as she.

For five days I hang

between earth and sky,


feeding on gravity alone.

The crops keep their roots.