The Crone Keeps All Her Blood
Wren Donovan
Moon , the color of dried blood a scab against the charcoal light of heaven . Cloud cover , ash , a hiding place from silver light and scattered stars sharp eyes of judgment , pin-pricks in the heavy blanket overhead the leaky roof that lets in rain but traps the smoke . Crouched I do not try to stop the flow . Bleeding eases pain , releases toxins , loosens tongues . Here we conspire in isolation , sheltered , we commingle breath and tears and blood and stories . Daughters scavenge seeds and scraps of string , pocket misplaced coins and bits of script , le over sips of broth and secret handshakes . We will linger over soup pots hover over cauldrons , and whisper tales of princesses and strangers , servant girls and mermaids , to little girls at bedtime while the others laugh or sleep . Conjure , cook , cajole , concoct . Tinctures , potions , poisons , cake . Old wives ’ tales and nursery rhymes healing balms , abortifacients . We will plant rosemary for remembrance , gold trefoil for revenge . Hang coded quilts , bake songbirds into pies . And tie red ribbons to the wreathes that decorate the winter doors to welcome ghosts of ancestors and portend sunbeams breaking open stone . While the crone moon rises also ,