unconnected with moon women
a silver orb waits silently in a
musty corner on a wooden shelf,
hidden by sharp shadows like Chinese meat cleavers poised
on thick pegs above labeled spice jars, corked and racked,
full of the herbs of mid-wives, now forgotten.
on the windowsill, tart purple grapes, hot and shriveled
grapefruit and pomegranate exposing their soft pink and secret glistening red waiting to be eaten.
unconnected with moon women i wait,
a single artichoke on a a scalloped plate, my tips half chewed, strewn about the cream white edges
the sliver orb shifts forward slightly in the night, and
one sliver gleams bone white
capturing my frozen eyes.