Blood-Cycle Brooding — Rachel Dacus

Blood-Cycle Brooding
One more unpeeling of the walls, 
close enough to the final time 
that I can relish the tiny tearings, 
the way muscles unclasp 
from what might have been—
Once more, the shredding of a bed 
that waited fruitless five times seven 
years for an egg and dart 
to decorate its aching lap.

Once more a blood-gravity pulls
me into a planet’s centripetal spin,
the dropping-down cramp 
mimicking birth-pang,
open mouth delivering
a new poem, breath 
heaving and rasping.
And what do I have left
from all those empty moon-circles?

Scraped squeaky clean, the blood-room
has birthed generative words.
They sleep twitching in their cradles
or sun themselves nude on public rocks.
Tribe after diatribe of oaths and chants 
spilled from lips too like another portal.
Yes, in this blood-tide of verbs 
I brought myself forth
through a mirror, witched awake 
out of the pounding dark.