This vampire fang of a moon
protrudes from the lip of the night,
sickles me with its scythe point,
sucks all the blood out of me once a month,
grows bloated on its scarlet drink
while I blanch moon-pale and wane.
Thirteen times a year my tide goes out,
my iron drawn to a horseshoe magnet
Thirteen times a year my tide comes in.
Suckled by the sky’s midnight breast,
I wax moon-shimmery, moon-full,
drink the night to a shrivelled witch’s dug,
fattened on its blood.
© Melanie Branton 2019