“Oh you know how it is, women and their little phases…”

by Amy Wolstenholme

Still they say I am moon full, swollen
with light and spilling over floorboards.
Rippling with tides, roaring with dreams,
ready to consume and ready to release,
          bleached          white bones 
          to a bleached  white beach.
Still they say I am moon stung, hymning
to stone circles, calling to the knife.
Am scorched blood red, a Hunter,
aching for the sacrifice.         
            wolf man         (run).
Still they say I am Hecate, beckoning
wayfarers to the moonburnt glade,
where the grass is bladed silver
and the way home eclipsed,
            can you hear
            the       grave calling
            can you hear
the moonlight split, shattered
in the carving of your name. Still they
say I am moon crazed, my mind broken
by mortar and pestle, ready to be
moon dust      
          to be
          dis       assem bled)
Still they say I am moon trapped,
drowned reflection in the lake or
whipped by tree branches, yet
still somehow moon stripped,
silver-tongued and dangerous
            ware    the witch)
Still they say   emotional
Still they say   irrational
She’s moon touched, it’s in her
skin, in           
Where once they would have
brought the flames
Now they just bring words to cut,
but I will be the moon, if I must,
I will be the night beams
            burnt silver
slashing at
            shut windows