Last blood.
Most, I know, do not receive
this knowledge ahead – a gradual surcease, then
the last time is the last but you don’t know
until months have passed….

I will not miss
waking exhausted. The vise-tight wrenching.
The involuted seeds, swollen beyond distortion
and meaning     oh pluck them please

today with the flow descending, finally comes a whisper
of hesitancy
– oh I am more than ready to feel hunger again –
yet this barren, engorged flesh I have been carrying
for so long, will its leaving leave me
bereft? Or grant me blest, a hollow-full
of Crone lightness?