The moon has dropped its eggs

into the branches.

We have picked them and

put them inside.

Put them inside.

Our bodies are baskets,

intricate woven things,

knots and elbows,

feet and thread,

deadly headdress.

Our bodies are the movement

of water.

Waves within us. We’ve taken

the tide inside.

The tide inside.

The moon, she’s dropped her eggs

into our nests,

feathers and all, blood shell.

We call to her, “Moon, may you open?”

And without a word, round and big, she fills the earth.