New Moon.

It is a new moon, and I hear life
passing
through black oak trees.
My limbs contract
while menarcheal sounds
pulse in the distance,
as if swollen
echoes pierce these blood walls of night.

Noise moves out like amniotic fluid from
hidden canals,
nursing an afterbirth
with the power of hushed primordial thunder.
And here I stand, post-germinal,
pregnant with the rhythm
of sustained darkness,
life-gore also flowing from my body,

pressed into the uterine shadows
and listening,
listening to the delivered babble,
listening to the cryptic tide
of the cosmic organ going on like music in me.