Other Tides

The day I met you
the moon abandoned me for other tides,
I became a snake turned outside in,
shedding skin at every curt word.

At first I thought it coincidence
Until I noticed:
I only bleed when I cry
and only you make me cry.

Not Christ’s wounds, then
but the Magdalen’s curse:
the stigmata of the
easily overlooked.

Red rivers weave over thighs,
blood red pennies patter on the white tiles,
a knife-like sting between my legs,
and I’m giving birth to copper spiders.

One day, I promise myself,
all this will stop,
not at the eclipse of the moon,
but when I go blind.