I will miss that moon tug,
the invitation to slough, cleanse
and begin again. Gone
the meaty mess of it, the pulp
and blood squelch, ancient
ache of emptying. Goodbye
to that leaky grief-giver,

always trailing its sorry sorry.
Its orbits governed three-
quarters of my life, the wax
and wane of estrogen,
my ruinous or amorous moods.
For decades nothing dreamed
itself into existence, but then

into that soft pocket, lumpen
with my collection of marbles
and scars, two little lives
stitched themselves with intention
to be enfolded and nourished.
One was scraped dead, the next
was lifted living, out of it.

Now that it is taken from me,
how am I to navigate without
its wisdom in the salty broth
of my body? Without it
I only carry the mulberry-dark
memory of the womb
from which we are all formed.